[Author’s Note: I wrote this a little over two years ago.  Dec 14th, 2024 (today) will be the two-year anniversary of her passing.] In Memory of Mary Helen Duren Hecht In the earliest memory I have of you, I woke to the music of your voice; my eyes opened on your smiling face. A young mother, you roused me from sleep with the softest, sweetest lilt you could produce. You knew how children’s dreams, their souls still bright, are visited by cherubs—in whose presence there can be no fear or need. You eased the harsh stir from soft bliss to garish day. And so, as a child, my heavenly dreams ended gently, and earthly days began with your smile and the music of your heart.

She is Winter      by William Hecht Deep December night and she is spent. She is consumed–like the fields after a greedy harvest. She slumbers—as does the world. Only her essence is sentient, aware. It is a spell: cast in the light of the great moon, it will break with the first rays of the equinox sun. Her hair is black. It is a wave of boreal night that flowed through the glass, swept down her  cheek, and spilled on a pale shoulder.  Things made of night are smooth–and softer by far than anything made from day. She dreams—as does the world–of light and warmth, of aromas and twitching roots, the launch of dancing sprouts: calls to life. If I could dream with her, I would

[Author’s note: I wrote this over twenty-five years ago. It remains a favorite bit of writing–especially this time of year. Readers who wish to may share it for non-profit purposes with due attribution. ]   Dear Friend  (How Many Blessings Can You See in This Picture?) By William Hecht   Though I never suspected it (and usually don’t), I had been blessed when Paul asked me if I might join him on Christmas Eve. He intended to call the Salvation Army or Goodwill Industries and offer to help serve dinner that night to the needy and homeless. I told him that I had no other plans and would be glad to join him. That Paul would initiate such a plan was not the surprise that it

  AT THE AGE of 22, my life path was given a shake when a roommate spontaneously recited a few poignant passages of a book he was reading. The title was The Day on Fire and the author, James Ramsey Ullman, had fictionalized the life of a great poet. Arthur Rimbaud was the enfant terrible of French Poetry; he was only 17 when he arrived in Paris, and by the time he turned 21 he had shocked the literary world.  He shocked my world, too. He wrote things powered by vision and imagination–and their impact was not overly weakened by filter of translation: As soon as the idea of the Deluge had subsided, a hare stopped in the clover amid the swaying bluebells, and said

    [Author’s Note: I wrote this eleven or twelve years ago, before I moved back from the Southwest. Every time it snows during the night, I am reminded of this piece.]   I AM IN THE NORTH for a family visit. My elderly parents manage their simple life with a grace that humbles me. They could be threatened by the simplest acts. My minor setbacks would be their calamities: a fall, the flu, a minor accident driving to the store. Today they were mirthful and sweet and I could not decide if they were revisiting childhood or auditioning to become angels. Last month, I watched the movie “Amour,” an intense look at a couple managing change after half a century of life together (they

  [This is a seasonal piece from Unit Three Writings] MY SEASON APPROACHES and with it arrive my best prospects for redemption. I refer to September, both as the ninth month and as a stage of Life–the ripeness of being that precedes the bitter cold. I refer to the September I was born to and those sweet, sad days that invite surrender to Melancholy’s caress. This belief takes shape in me only now, at fifty. It formed in increments by way of three separate and eclectic experiences. The first came while I was away at college, that blissful period when my future was indiminishable by doubt or skepticism, and a writing pad stuck out of my back pocket that I might recognize and record rare

[Author’s Note: Mom went to her rest on Dec. 14th 2022 at 90 years of age. I composed a tribute to her shortly after that; here’s the link: https://www.moviesmarketsandmore.com/paean-for-a-country-girl-or-faith-family-community-learning-and-little-baseball/ This piece, Mercy, is one of my favorites and Mom was the main character and the inspiration. Early this month and inspired by her example, I went to the nursery, inexpertly selected flowers,  drove to the cemetery and planted them  behind the stone for my parents’ grave. My grandmother and grandfather got some, too. At the time, her date of death was yet unmarked.  It wouldn’t bother me if it stayed as it is] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ IN MY MOTHER’S kitchen, and taped to the door of a cabinet where cups and plates are kept, is a laminated

    [This piece, taken from the writing collection of the same title, is re-posted as an anniversary tribute. Dad died on August 12, 2013. ]       The Eighth Day by Thornton Wilder is my favorite book. It is probably also the most underrated novel of the last century. I never merely re-read it; every few years it summons me, and like a somnambulist I turn to the bookshelf and reach for my copy. A novel such as that is a conjurer’s orb: your hands surround and caress it, your eyes peer into its depths and… a voice sounds. The voice wields the kind of authority that dismisses fiction. The images, the characters—the story chronicles a series of events so rife with Truth

[Author’s Note: this year marks my 29th “anniversary.”] Until I saw the date, February 2, it hadn’t occurred to me that it was my “birthday” again. This birthday–which is more of an anniversary–marks for me the first day of uninterrupted sobriety 29 years ago. It hadn’t seemed like a very important day at the time; in fact, if anyone had asked then, I would have said it was the worst day of my life.  I was bloated and quaking. My eyes were yellow like a cat’s–from jaundice. And my store of courage was so low I had to be led around like a child. There’s no question that on that day, my second life began. It would help to note here that I am not

  A Token of the Holly King By William Hecht Weekday afternoons at two o’clock, he began to look for her. Each time the little bell sounded to announce that the door to Ye Olde Coffee and Tea Shop had been opened, he would turn his head. As three o’clock grew near and brought with it the possibility that she wouldn’t arrive that day, he began to resent the other customers who instead appeared in the door at the sound of the bell. He imagined that she must have begun working at one of the neighborhood shops in mid-November, and that she probably arrived at work in late morning and took a break in the afternoons. Though it was nearly Christmas and she visited most