The sense of place.

A reflection at year's end.

The Ramirez house on the plaza in Roma, Texas, built by my ancestors in the latter half of the nineteenth century.

A friend remarked lately that she is haunted by words on a haunting. It is the famous close to Norman Maclean’s 1976 A River Runs Through It:

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.

My waters, she says, are the Bayou Teche.