(Note: Names and personal details in this essay have been changed.) How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news — Isaiah 52:7 I am sitting on the cold brick-red tiles of the mudroom floor, putting on Helen’s shoes. I’ve gotten one of her indoor slippers off — velcro straps unpeeled, foot extracted. I cradle this foot in its pink woolly sock, ankle twisted at a slight angle, cramped, curled-up toes inside. I feel the squish of the foam toe-separato

Rolando had already trimmed the bottlebrush, the strawberry blossoms like a cylindrical hairbrush. Honeybees, bumblebees, and yellowjackets assaulted the blossoms, and made his job difficult and dangerous. The yellow jackets would not be scattered or shaken off. They stayed, waiting for an opening. Whenever he worked against yellowjackets, something bad would happen. Rolando hated the mesh draped from his baseball cap to prevent the yellowjackets and bees from stinging his

New Orleans, April 2, 1848   Tendrils of morning fog drifted through the live oaks of St. Anthony’s Garden. Nestled behind St. Louis Cathedral's towering spires, the garden was an Old World masterpiece transplanted to the New World. Brick pathways formed a cross that met at a gurgling fountain filled with water lilies. Manicured hedges of boxwood created intimate alcoves. Magnolia trees joined the oaks overhead, their white blossoms hanging like faint ornaments in the pre-daw