Barbara Wuest

“Get that tomato, there, and that one,” she says as she points with her cane and holds my arm. We have walked the short space from the back porch to her late August garden, tomatoes too ripe, yellow-green peppers in threes bursting through the dry. Doing as I’m told, I pick the red ones, snap . . . . Continue Reading »

From the eastern rim Jorgé throws a rockinto the deep and we hear nothing in return.An American lady says as she walks awaythat it’s a nice place to visit and her voicetrails off. And “breathtaking” sayssomeone else we’ll never get to . . . . Continue Reading »