Katherine’s Coffeehouse

Cucumber

That garden you decided to plant? How it took time to turn over the soil, get past the sweat, that insistent dust settling on your white sneakers. You cussed. Later you’d take that first bite of cucumber, squirting refreshment from summer rains, several thick slices inviting another serving. It felt a little like happiness.

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Remote Work

By Katherine Gotthardt Somewhere in the midst of life’s lessons, I’m forgetting how to speak. I think it might be the COVID solitude, demanding silence and order and discipline, the daily tidying of a cluttered workspace I don’t want anyone to see. Or maybe it’s approaching winter, early morning frost telling us all to hush.

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Empathy

By Katherine Gotthardt The turtle has been crushed by a mower, life leaving through cracks in its shattered shell, coagulated, looking like cranberries and minced meat, the poor thing bobbing an intact head trying to look behind itself, as if wondering what could have gone wrong. And I am devastated because I can neither put

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Decisions

By Katherine Gotthardt Somewhere, there’s what I should be doing, somewhere between the smudged edges of you and me, between the places where time and things collect, and I become a bit overwrought. I look around this room, this one room, and I am breathless – not because it is beautiful, not with appreciation, not

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