Author: Frank J. Tassone

Waiting for rain that hasn’t come. Above the passing cumulus clouds, a prop plane. The gentlest tremble of maple leaves in a breeze too light to stir the wind chime. Mira reads. Frankie, too—or...

August 31st Louis’ steaks cook perfectly. I see the pink interior of the half of one that I fork onto my plate. The juices fill my mouth as I close lips around that first...

August 29th We pass the peach and apple groves as we make our way across the Boscobel estate. Locate an ideal spot upon which to picnic on which on the great lawn overlooking the...

August 27th The water covers our ankles, and it’s still cold after a summer’s worth of sun. A few steps in, and waves crash against our knees. The undertow pulls and pulls. Frankie soon...

August 25th The car rattles up the first hill, reaches the top, then ever so slowly passes over it. Wheels thunder on iron rails, while screams arise from passengers, as it rushes down. Mira...

More than a week has passed. Out of a two-month summer vacation, two days remain. Impressions: last bitter taste of morning coffee cicada song August 23rd We take the mandatory photo at the Statue...

Mira didn’t want to tell me: the AC stopped working again. We toggled the switch, heard the hum of the intake fan, but only warm air emerged from the vent. When I went outside...

Ilana’s memoir lies on top of a pile of Family Circle magazines. In all the time we worked together… … I only read half. My un-replied email August crickets