Tag Archives: Rose Mary Boehm

Pitaya

Pinky-red or yellow. Not pretty but unexpected. The man at the market cuts through the soft, thick peel with a sharp knife and practiced skill. Toma. He offers me a slice of almost quivering, succulent flesh. Juice drips from my … Continue reading

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May in Finland

We waded through water mixed with dirty ice. Wet, cold, miserable. It’d been a long winter. The Baltic had boasted ice floes in April which should have warned us. Another melting bog, another soft hill, soggy moss, rotting trees. A … Continue reading

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I am full of empty spaces

I found old albums yesterday—peopled in black and white by faces whose names I can’t recall in buildings which long ago became spaces. There was a cemetery once, where my family’s name was proudly displayed to confirm their importance. May … Continue reading

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