Making Cider

There is the day your friend visits and finds the  trees  heavy with  fruit.  Ripe. Rotten almost.    The apples  riddled with worms.  You’ve  let them drop to the ground.   One after another.  Hoping a bear will come.  Or  deer.  To eat the apples. Your friend says, you know these will make great cider, right? …

This Friend of Mine

I keep thinking of the voice on my  answering machine. The small, tinny voice.  Distant and full of echoes,  as if my friend is at the bottom of a deep well and she has a phone and calls.  She calls to say she can’t  make it to the wedding.  I don’t remember why.   She leaves a message on my work…