Lucy Bamboo · July 4, 2026
There is a puddle at the end of our driveway that has been there for three days. It appeared after Tuesday’s rain and has been slowly, reluctantly evaporating, and my daughter has visited it every single morning with the seriousness of a scientist checking on an experiment. She crouches down beside it — her whole … Read more
Lucy Bamboo · July 4, 2026
The log was not large. That’s the thing I keep coming back to. By any adult measure, it was a modest piece of firewood — a round of birch maybe eight inches long, split once, the pale wood still holding a little of the cold from the porch where we stack them. But Wren spotted … Read more
Lucy Bamboo · July 4, 2026
My mother-in-law’s face appeared on the laptop screen in pieces — her forehead first, then an ear, then a shoulder, while she negotiated the angle of her tablet from three thousand miles away. “Can you see me? Is this better? Wait — ” The kitchen in Oregon tilted through the frame. A refrigerator. The edge … Read more
Lucy Bamboo · July 4, 2026
She stopped for the first time about four feet from our front door. Not because anything had happened — no sound, no movement — but because there was a crack in the concrete, and the crack was interesting, and that was that. It was a Tuesday morning in late September, the air still warm but … Read more
Lucy Bamboo · July 3, 2026
There is a carved bear in a mountain town we pass through, taller than I am, sitting forward on its haunches with its front paws curled like armrests. It’s carved from a single trunk, stained a deep amber-brown, flanked by a pair of carved birch trees so the whole thing reads as a forest scene, … Read more
Lucy Bamboo · July 1, 2026
There’s a creek at Oak Creek, at the Red Rock Crossing in Sedona, Arizona, shallow and slow, with a soft muddy bank where the water goes still. Last April I took my daughter there on a whim, the day too good to stay inside, and within about ninety seconds she had lowered herself straight down … Read more
