Shari

“Okay,” I said, thinking of all the music that could be brought to life in just seconds at the tips of those long fingers, the wealth of musical information stored in him. I could have asked him to play anything on the piano in the corner right there – in any musical style – and Shari would have been able to do it.

I stood there, trying to measure my experience in this place, this second, this universe. So perfectly normal, it feels like nothing. Me and Shari at The Gumboot, exchanging pleasantries, bumbling our way through this confounding existence. How could he be dying? Neither of us had it figured out.

Below: A community ritual: a home-made boat with wishes for the New Year, being sent out on New Year’s Day in the afternoon off of Roberts Creek beach.

Your Mother’s Voice

“Who is that? Who is the woman with that voice, saying things only our Mother knew to say? Even the gaps between her words were hers, so typical. But the voice itself, too high, too thin to be Mother’s voice! How could that be?”