All posts tagged: aa reinecke

Gold Rivers, or a Brief and Reconciliatory Comment on Vermont Half-Moon Cookies

I read somewhere that “when the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filing the cracks with gold. They believe that when something has suffered damage and has a history, it becomes more beautiful.” This is what I was reminded of when my best friend, who is half Japanese, half white, acquired bruises on her knees from falling against the tennis court clay. Whenever she says hafu to speak of her split-heritage, I think of the two sides of those Vermont half-moon cookies, but I like what I read better than my more often thought over simile. I like this idea of her, this idea of there being, in fracture of the two cultures, in that space of incompleteness, a different sort of value. I often ask her about her father’s New England heritage, this half of the cookie that is maybe a recollected Massachusetts, Connecticut, Vermont, a passage lifted a winter climate, because there is something glamorous to me about it, something handsome in a simple, wholesome way, though in having heard …

Trip

Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke By the age of sixteen I had a will that could’ve sprung only from the conception of a particularly well-traveled child. I wasn’t actually well traveled—most every airplane ride of my youth was between some state and Massachusetts—but my father raised me in an America balanced somewhere between a tray table and a pack of salted peanuts. It was June and hot and Trip and I were on a flight home from Minnesota, our last one together. “Got anymore snacks?” Trip said. “Pretzels?” I said. “Just not raisins.” “Whatta you have against raisins?” Trip sipped his ginger ale, “I’ve seen more raisins then Sloane Colby.” “That the girl whose father—” “Yeah, manufactures ‘em or something,” he said. He wore a particularly unattractive green sweater and close-mouthed amusement. “Races on?” Trip shoved three pretzels in his mouth, “Belmont at four and—” “You betting today?” “Yeah,” he said. “You see the McAlister’s? Racing family, you know. Spent six mill last year on breeding. There to the left. And not Arden. Kick myself …

Muted Lavender

Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke  The sucked dry half of a lemon stood atop a saucer, posing as an inverted rose. The other half was raised to the lips of a brunette. Outside, through the window, the yard was snowed; the oaks sat proud in their age, the previous day’s snowman lounged beside the hedges. Town’s outline—pointed roofs and chimney smoke—was visible from the whited lawn. Beyond the waltzing smell of fire was the Hudson spread at the foot of town, deep gray polished like glass with the weather. Speckled lights of steamers hummed down the way and a fearless sail boat inched along the shoreline. Emmeline and Ryan Corrigan, the former the brunette sucking the lemon rose, stood in the front foyer of a very clean, large, white house, which out front bore the revival columns of Rome set down in New England. The girls were a panoply of browns and grays in cashmere stockings, pullovers, wool coats. Ryan tugged at her corduroy skirt and then at her hair. “Know Ryan saw them,” …

To Make Windows

Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke The word “yard sale” draws, to most, an image of dust bottomed glassware; to the soft of mind it conjures prospect of silverware to reveal, with lye and metal wool, the initials of a president’s cousin or another man of once-removed significance. To John Brady, the worth of whose brain had been estimated—by a small, but by all means reputable newspaper—at the sum of four million and seventy five thousand dollars, it meant a particularly green afternoon in Poughkeepsie, New York. Karen’s was a good house with a wide lawn, a brick exterior and a tennis court made of imported clay. She had a folding table open on the cement of the front walk up; over her face sat the effect of hastened dissipation. “Brady,” she said, when he approached the lawn, “The million dollar brain.” Brady stopped at the table. His nephew stood at Karen’s legs with his six year old palms tight to her jean-clad calves. “Hey Bumby.” Bumby clung tighter. “Say hi, Bumby.” “Where’s Dad?” said Bumby. …

Like Ian

Like Ian Words by A.A. Reinecke It is cold like a prison like Antarctica gray and on the folded bit a dribbling of blood the shape of: Minnesota. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. It is noon now. That was breakfast. The room was a sideboard with bits of fractured glass. The windows spoke in tongues or through lust strained in milk. Q: Do you love me? A: I don’t know. Chai was sweet grain melted like the wetness of my mouth and your tongue tasted still like Ian and his carpet and his gin like a plow for planting prohibition. Q: The flask? A: No. My plastic cup membrane shed quartz like history nabbed from a headband. The 1920s. Q: You eating? Coffee? Anything? A: No. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. Photo credit: Brandon Yung