I write A Home Filled With Love from the house I have kept for most of my life. Most of what I write about arrived here from somebody else's house first, and I would rather tell you the version with the mistake still in it.
The deadbolt only needs one turn, but every night it gets two, and the second one has become the small, deliberate full stop that tells the rest of the house the day is finally closed out.
Read the piece
My mother had a drawer full of half finished sewing projects, and for years I assumed that was just how it went.…
My grandmother kept the recipe in her head, not on paper, and for years I thought that meant it wasn't a real…
The percolator my mother used every morning of her married life sits on my counter still, dented on one side, the kind…
My father built a simple pine picture ledge in his garage one weekend, unstained, with a groove for leaning frames. It has…
The stretch of time right before dinner used to be the most chaotic part of my day. Here is what I learned…
The letters were in a shoebox, which I have since learned is one of the worst possible places to keep paper for…
The phone rang at quarter past nine on a Tuesday, and it was my niece Junie, and I could tell from the…
Every evening, before the sky has actually gone dark, someone flips the switch by the front door, and that small act of…
My grandmother made bread every Sunday of her adult life without ever writing down a recipe, and when I finally tried to…