<![CDATA[Cora Thomas Writes - Creative Nonfiction]]>Thu, 09 Jul 2026 00:39:21 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Summer Anticipation]]>Thu, 18 Jan 2024 23:37:04 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/creative-nonfiction/summer-anticipation~ for k.i. ~
 
As summer arrives anticipation builds for our small plum crop on five acres in the Skagit.
We pray for bees.
 
I collapse under my eagerness and walk to the top of our long twisting driveway.
Five trees stand for nearly fifty years.
 
The crunch of loose gravel underneath our Keds as we run. Myself, and my two cousins - sisters.
A child’s excitement - plump as plums.
 
       “Are they ripe yet?! Can we go pick some yet?!” As we chide my dad and my uncle.
 
We pluck and eat vigorously. With the sun high, light would shine through the leaves, reaching through branches. Plums glow translucent. Purple visions - the hue of happiness.
 
Years later, in the Spring when the white plum blossoms were in full bloom a letter arrived from my oldest cousin.
 
      “I can’t wait to pick the plums again. That was always so fun.”
 
As summer approached plums began to mature – but her hand as soft as their skins would not pluck them. Although the sun did not shine as bright the light nourished the plums to ripen. Perhaps her spirit was reflected in that violent hue.
 
Each summer her anticipation lingers in my mind and heart heavy as I remember our tradition of plum picking. The climate is drier now and summer has lengthened. The sun has dimmed in wildfire smoke. As I reach high and watch the light dance across the dry leaves our hands grasp for a ripe plum. My hand plucks the purple vision from the branch and as I eat, I taste our prayer for bees. I taste dust and dirt. I taste the grain of gravel under our Keds.
 
As our pleas to pick echoes, her beauty darts around branches, shadow, and light.
 
My dad sold our home a few years back. And one season, my dear friend and former neighbor made jam from the same trees. As she handed me a jar, my words were caught up beneath the tight seal of the lid.
 
I cried as I opened summer anticipation.


Published in the poetry anthology, The Madrona Project: The Empty Bowl Cookbook, Vol. 6, No. 1, Empty Bowl Press, Jan. 2024, emptybowlpress.org
]]><![CDATA[The Maple]]>Wed, 01 Jun 2016 07:00:00 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/creative-nonfiction/page-coming-soonWith hands on my hips I stare sharply up at this culprit with wide leaves and towering stature. The squirrels won’t be happy after dad cuts down this maple on the curve of the driveway. Their squirrel highway will be interrupted. So, they’ll need to learn how to fly or find a way around this conundrum. Would the squirrels even use the word conundrum if they could speak? I think to myself getting off track. A big hole of light will appear, I notice from this angle. We’ve always needed more light on this property anyways.

The maple has been growing for forty years on this corner of the drive and now that it’s been shedding dead branches – a ripe scenario for someone to get hurt or a windshield to get smashed in dad quickly reminds me – he has decided to cut it down. I feel a pang of sympathy for this behemoth. All it’s doing is living itsmaple tree life, doing maple tree things, isn’t it? But, I shouldn’t feel too bad,maples they really don’t die, if you cut them down the story is not over, a new one can sprout, the roots are still alive and kicking and wreaking havoc on the water line since its right next to where he dug the well – the maple was just a sapling when he dug the well and at the time he told himself he likes maples – they turn so brilliant gold and orange in the fall – his favorite season.

But, this tree has turned into a nuisance like so many other things lately that has its firm grip on dad’s attention. The mice in the barn, the weeds trying to strangle you in the night, the lawn that doesn’t stop growing, the mower making weird noises. Now, that big maple needs to be dealt with quickly but not without pain, dad scoffs. The mess it’ll make he said. The leaves, the branches – I’ll have wood for forty more years and where am I gonna put it all. Wood wealthy, he says. At least I’ll be wood wealthy. But, now that the maple and dad are a few years older it won’t be so easy-peasy on the ol’ body. He’ll recruit his brother, he thinks. Someone who is as old, and ornery, plus has vision problems to boot. “A perfect recruit,” I whisper to myself with a sigh letting my hands fall to my side. I look straight ahead past the red roofed barn and the field, to more maples with a slight smile on my face. 

]]><![CDATA[Window Meditation]]>Mon, 01 Jun 2015 07:00:00 GMThttp://www.corathomaswrites.com/creative-nonfiction/window-meditationAn evening breeze creeps through the open window. I lean back in the Lazy Boy and close my eyes. I’m relieved to inhale the cool air as it slowly brushes past my face. Cooler temperatures have been a stranger around these parts lately – dry is what’s out there, just dry dead grass, even the weeds are dead. I can almost hear the soil pleading for rain.

I open my eyes and they rest on the table by the entryway. It’s littered with random things from that day out – a pit stop momentarily before they are put away in their corresponding homes throughout the house. The sunscreen will end up back in the bathroom cupboard, the eye glasses case in the purse, the library book on the bedroom night stand beside the water glass. Although they look awfully comfortable lounging on this particular table in a messy sort of way, an inconspicuous sort of way. The things that do belong on that table must be a little crowded but the wood carving of the bear and the vase full of feathers don’t seem to mind much. Do you ever get tired of being carried around everywhere, I think to myself, or does it give you much needed adventure – an escape from the places we stuff you?

The birds call their evening requests in the shade of the cedar trees beyond the window.
The windbreakers hang listlessly on the coat rack – how nice it would be for that kind of complete relaxation. The lack of form suggests a respite from hugging someone’s back all day long – their work is done for now.

My eyes easily climb from the coat rack to the wooden shelves with the glass doors. Dad pulled that out of the shop one year and fixed it up; boasting that he could use it for something useful. He doesn’t throw things away very easily, “You never know when you might need that,” he always says, followed by an eye roll from me. The faces in the photos and figurines stare back at me. We are still here – they say – do you notice me now? We’ve always been here looking out at you wondering where you go and what you do – and then welcoming you back when you arrive home again. I blink a few times, oblivious to this fact.

I take another deep breath.

A picture of dad in his youth proudly holding up a bobcat he’s just killed – time has faded it to a reddish tone, the rusty color gives a new meaning to the image somehow. An empty box of candy cigarettes, “Just Like Dad” it exclaims on the front complete with floating heads of a father and young son. A childhood reminder of a long ago joke between my cousin and I – expert candy cigarette smokers in our day, mind you. On the right top shelf is another trinket, encased in egg shaped glass is a Japanese scene of a tower atop a cliff with a crane standing in reeds below. This was a gift from my mother who passed away several years ago. I remember when she gave it to me I asked what it was, too young to understand the intricate handiwork – she patiently explained the stylized art form.
​
The breeze tickles the maple leaves beyond the window. It’s getting colder outside, time has passed without me noticing.

I thought I saw the woody reeds in the sculpture sway slightly just for a moment. If I leave the window open tonight that must be what the crane rustles his feathers at in his glass dome.

As I ponder the crane, a thought crosses my mind. Have the significance of these objects dried up along with my lawn or faded like the pages of the library book lying on the table? Moments are carefully held in the weight of these objects, in the curves and creases, the angles and shadows. Kept safe and out of harm’s way, partitioned by glass.

My gaze shifts down to the coat rack and then over to the table of things and out the window. I sigh abruptly as thunderheads build in the distance. My heart beat slows against the back of the chair as I smell rain marching up to my window.       

Everything slows as I meditate at the window.]]>