Rebecca Cofiño, Miami Srings, FL

"It's Raining"

Right now a thunderstorm is whipping rain down from the sky in every direction. It's the kind of rain that is so loud it makes the house quiet.

And here I am, remembering a much gentler rain from thirty years ago, the one time Granddaddy took me fishing on his small aluminum boat. We woke up early. Mom packed my lunch; Nana packed his. This memory comes from the year we lived with them, also known as: the year after my father died.

We sat on a cold boat in the middle of a lake. Although he was quite the jokester, I remember it being very quiet. Maybe it was too early. The fish weren't biting, so we ate our lunches. Mom had packed my lunch which meant nothing good, also known as: everything healthy. Nana packed his, so it was damn good. He even had a dessert: a piece of lemon cake wrapped in tin foil. That was the only part of his lunch he shared with me. We ate it with our fingers as it started to rain.

This is the kind of memory that makes me sad Andres and I can't give our sons a Granddaddy or an Abuelo. Those people passed away before our love story began.

But this kind of sadness doesn't make me want to cry. Like all forms of love, it is bittersweet, filling then leaving my heart larger.

This is the kind of sadness that makes me want to bake a lemon cake.

And so I am. My house is full of its warm smell and the sound of pounding rain falling all around us, while leaving my children and me, deeply protected.

Kevin Brown, Miami, FL

"The Orchard"

She lay spread beneath the orchard greens -
Her clothes hung to dry amidst the still damp breeze and brazen blue of waning rains.
She cradles the fruit in both hands -
Ripe and full and firm as she softly turns it in her palms.
Her fingers run its width, tracing the stem to its belly and back again -
Comparing its flesh to the now yellow sun and the splendid summer
dandelions that abound to either side.
Then at last she lifts it to her lips -
They as full and ripe as the fruit -
And she takes it in like a lover's kiss -
Soft and slow, but complete.
Finally she pulls away - her lips her own once more, though flush,
still, as its juices trickle from her chin to her bare breast below.
And then she cradles it again - its bit of flesh exposed - a bit of
white against the gold ... a bit of gold against the white... the stem
now brushing her palm as she waits to take the next bite.

Terry Hauser, Miami, FL

"Hammerin' Hank"

1976

On our first date, I took Michelle to the Duck Joint. There, amidst
the heady aromas of red cabbage and Czechoslovakian wine, we exchanged
headlines of our lives and inventories of our interests.

Blond, blue-eyed Michelle Shapiro: daughter of a Romanian father and a
Cuban mother -exotic chemistry; teacher of French and Spanish;
watercolor painter.

"So, tell me what you like."

I submitted a short list: Woody Allen movies, jazz and baseball.

"Woody Allen is one of my favorites, too," she started. "Ever since
high school, I've listened to my father's jazz records -especially
Billie Holiday and Coleman Hawkins."

Coleman Hawkins. Impressive.

"And I love to go to baseball games. You know, I have a cousin who was
a famous baseball player."

It wasn't just the wine. This date was special.

"Yes, my cousin is Hank Aaron."

Call it my baseball erudition or perhaps a twinge of intuition, but
her last comment did not ring true.