Author: Frank J. Tassone

We lie down at 11:00 in the evening. My feet, legs, elbows feel twisted and itchy. And the sheet feels like a burial shroud. A flood of thoughts and images arise, a torrent from...

My steps up the blacktop walkway from the lower parking lot sound louder and louder. The off-white, windowed, one-story hallway ahead grows. My heart beats faster with each step. A knot in my throat,...

Julianna sleeps. Caterina dressed her in a light, pink baby dress. She has much brown, curly hair in only two weeks! While Mira chats with Anna-Maria in Portuguese, Frankie stroke’s the baby’s cheeks. We’ve...

I awake at five. Toss and turn until seven. Then give up and center on the deck for the last time at Smuggs this season. Birdsongs, so different and yet similar, to home; the...

The trail is a mix of gravel and dirt. Pine seedlings, high grass and ferns flank it on both sides. Morse mountain starts more evenly than Madonna. Until we come to the first rise....

Gray clouds clinging under the deck rail a string of raindrops what better morning for intimacy? Awake at two in the morning. Restless in bed until after five. Awake again, this time by Frank,...

Madonna rises ahead. The ski lift passes out of sight. Mira and I walked hear all the way from Mountain Laurel 15 via the Meadowlark. Now I wonder what we were thinking. gravel on...

Our self-guided Wike begins with soggy sneakers. Our path emerges from wet, high grasses near the driveway to Mountain Laurels. We find a path to Notchville Park and take the loop down to the...