It was a cooking weekend; I made soup, cupcakes, and chicken casserole. Comfort food for cold windy days. And I knit. I can't seem to stop making them. I discovered (to my horror) that it's my turn to submit on Thursday and all I've been writing are these little scribbles, so that's what you're getting, make of it what you will.
How does the sea grape grow, she wondered. You find it in the most unlikely places. Here on top of the cliff overlooking the ocean, for example. There was precious little soil anywhere on the island for plants to grow in and none at all she could see up here. The thick fleshy gray roots lay curled on top of the rock like long growths, not the white threads she saw when she planted begonias with her grandma when she was a kid. Those hours spent with Grandma were the only normal parts of her life so far. Her parents had been aging hippies holding on with a death grip to the carefree days of their youth. They lived in a cluster of yurts outside Des Moines, for God's sake, where her dad taught philosophy and Eastern religions to the sons and daughters of corn farmers and her mother scraped a living as an intuitive potter. That meant her pieces were attractive in an organic way but seldom actually useful. The fact was that her life was one of capitalism and its many excesses, paid for by a man who represented all that Lucas and Beth despised. Their daughter, Moonlight, had changed her name to Mona as soon as she left home and set about getting as far from her roots as possible.
Ah, so her name is Mona. Makes me feel better knowing her name.
--Barbara
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