Uncle Bill, by Sara Robbins

Uncle Bill Rubin was not a blood relative. He was an old Russian Jew my father sort of adopted. He was the closest thing to a grandfather that I had. He was married to Aunt Anne — a New England Wasp related to the Phyfe's, as in Duncan Phyfe. They were an odd couple in the '50s — like my parents were — a Jew and a shiksa.

They never had children but they had Lassie, an elderly, smelly Collie who had her own room and bed (which smelled). My sister wouldn't go into that room or even pet Lassie, but I loved her. They lived in a sweet older house in a section of Po'town which was in decline. They kept their home clean and orderly. Uncle Bill owned an ancient, huge brown car, which he kept in his garage, covered with blankets. Inside it smelled of mothballs. He drove slowly up Main Street, cars honking; he'd curse in Yiddish. The back seat where I sat was huge and Aunt Anne would let me chew orange Aspergum from her purse.

Uncle Bill was the cook. He made wonderful meatballs and chicken soup. Sometimes dog hair would find its way into the food, which was served on colorful Fiesta plates —orange and cobalt blue. They had a complete set, which years later would be declared hazardous due to lead in the glaze. Everything about their house was old, the furniture, the antique rugs, the fake glowing logs in the unused fireplace in a spare room. I used to love to turn the switch on and watch the red/orange glow. Uncle Bill always told me to turn it off.

Uncle Bill spoke Yiddish with my father when they didn't want us kids to know what they were talking about. He also spoke Russian, Polish, German, and wonderfully accented English. Aunt Anne, who had a long, thin Waspy nose, was quiet and demure, always very sweet and a little dim.

He was a tailor. He made beautiful handmade suits for my father. They would go together to pick out the fabric in New York City. When my brother was Bar Mitzvahed, Uncle Bill made Daddy a gorgeous suit. It was December, and cold out. We had a gathering at our home afterwards and for some reason Daddy went out to check the swimming pool cover. Maybe a strap had come loose. At any rate, somehow he fell into the pool. He yelled and we all came to help him out. Uncle Bill just stood by the pool screaming, "Da Suit, Da Suit!! You are ruining Da Suit!" Later we all laughed.

Maybe the Leaves, by Susanna Drbal

Maybe the leaves that have fallen will feel crisp under your feet, or maybe they will feel spongy.
Maybe you will kick and skip or maybe you will slip and fall.
Maybe the leaves will be chewed up and composted or maybe they will be left to rot in place.
Maybe one will stick to your shoe and it will remind you of your walk outside in the cold and damp.

Maybe one leaf will stick to your windshield, and maybe one leaf will cling to the wiper as you drive, streaking its way across the remains of bugs and bird shit.
Maybe it will wave as it passes, maybe it will try desperately to escape.

Maybe it will escape, a refugee in a forest of evergreens you now drive through.
Maybe you will open the window to invite the scent of pine to enter your car, the box that sometimes feels like a prison, other times a nest.
Maybe many animals have trodden on the pine needles or nosed at them or nudged them into a bed.
Maybe they like the smell as much as you do.

Maybe, as you drive in the forest of pine, you turn down the radio, even though the music has been a comfort to you.
Maybe now you want to hear the wind, the birds, and the creaking limbs.
Maybe you want to hear the scented air, smell the decay of flesh and greenery, and feel the outdoors, whether warm and gentle or cold and bracing, and maybe you will settle into it.
Maybe your hair will tangle in the breeze.
Maybe your eyes will tear up.
Maybe you’ll hear a coyote.
Maybe you’ll catch eyes with a deer.

Maybe you’ll pull over, find an opening in the trees, and follow a path as far as it goes.
Maybe the path ends at a creek.
Maybe the water is cold and clear and maybe there are tiny fish in large schools gathered near a fallen branch.
Maybe the mossy rock feels cool to the touch.
Maybe you see a pretty rock, streaked with color, and maybe you pick it up and feel the earth stop spinning.
Maybe you look up, into the sun where it peeks between clouds, and
Maybe you drop the rock, with a plop, back into the creek to be washed clean, and
Maybe drops fall off your fingers and ripples grow at your feet, bumping at the muddy banks, and

Maybe across the creek stands an animal, you don’t know what it is, and it’s looking at its reflection in the water, making ripples with its nose as it drinks.