Barbara Beckwith

Sarah Solomont feels stuck. She blames her house — it drives her crazy. “There’s too much stuff,” she says. “I can’t breathe.”
[…]

“Here’s my list,” my husband says, thrusting a computer printout at me. “Where’s yours?”
“No lists,” I say firmly.
[…]

I slip into the aisles of the textbook department, shoulders hunched. I’m feel like an interloper, intent as I am on raiding the inventory meant for college undergrads.

Clearly, I’m no undergraduate: that was decades ago. Yet I am drawn to this place. At least twice a year I wander its aisles, looking for what I may be missing. […]

My son is in love and engaged to be married. Trouble is, he wants the two families to fall in love as well. […]

My husband lays shirt, shorts and boots on the sandstone. Pink and nude as the rock around us, he strides toward the water that blocks our way up this narrow canyon in southern Utah. […]