Essays by Karen Anderson

The jar had fallen and shattered—spilling honey and broken glass across the wood floor. While I stood there scolding myself, my husband just said, “It was an accident.”

When I was 15 years old, I went to visit my cousin who lived about 200 miles away. She was older than I and going steady with someone named Steve. I yearned to go steady but hadn’t found anyone to share my yearning.

Years ago, a friend asked me, “What did you wish you had for the journey that you didn’t have?” She meant the journey of life and it’s hard to know what you’ll need when you start out.

Many years ago, my first husband and I had just moved into a house in the woods. It was early May and we stood on the deck, admiring the tiny new leaves on all the trees—like a pale green cloud hanging in the branches.

“That sheet makes you feel safe, doesn’t it?” I said.“It protects me from dragons under the bed,” she said, laughing. We both laughed, remembering when we used to check for dragons every night.“Have you checked?” I asked. “Maybe they’re gone for good now.”

We look for a bunch of cars out front but discover that the regulars are parked in back. The bartender looks about fifteen but knows her way around the drinks and the drinkers.