Tag Archives: Ann E. Wallace

Things begin to break one year into this long haul, the weight of each new day’s neglect adding upon that of the one before and before and before, since the time before this virus entered uninvited. But what do my … Continue reading →

Could you ever understand if you were not here in this quiet place of fear with me? Behind these doors locked tight to keep you safe and separate, the walls proved too porous to hold life elements of oxygen, of … Continue reading →

I pieced together my home state today, in a map of New England broken into a thousand pieces before me. I found my unmarked town on Buzzards Bay, located Hyannis, Falmouth, New Bedford—long ago rivals in high school track, popped … Continue reading →

I get stuck on Google Maps, zooming into memories etched unseen in the thin lines and shaded boundaries. I had forgotten about the creek that crossed Olde Knoll Road— did it traverse my friend’s wooded backyard when we were three … Continue reading →

I never intended to kill the sparrows, to scoop the bloated bodies from deadly water with my small net in the hesitant dew of morning. My city spit of green is hardly Eden for the motley life it draws from … Continue reading →

We gas up the hearse before the hurricane while other vehicles are turned away or stretch in line for blocks, strange privilege of imminent catastrophe, and when the day after darkens with shadows, we slip quietly onto closed highway, the … Continue reading →

As hours meant to be quiet and easy, shuffle by, parceled into slow minutes, I invite you into my narrow bed. You resist but need an hour’s release before you leave to direct the morning funeral. You curl tight beside … Continue reading →

I recalled that Doris Lessing wrote a story about Room Nineteen in a hotel where a woman went to find freedom, to write, then to die. When we rented Room Nineteen of our own, at the Sussex County Motor Inn, … Continue reading →

My brothers and I burrowed in the snow for hours, digging a cave so large that two or three could sit inside. But there were five of us, and I was the smallest and least welcome, so I waited to … Continue reading →

Small hands push the red pine needles this way and that, stubby fingertips carve tracks into the cool dirt. Our village complete, we race Matchbox cars with bright chipped paint down burnt umber roads, brrrm, brrrm, stalled for a moment … Continue reading →