Finding fresh ways to write timeless truth.
When someone asks you where you come from, the answer is your mother. . . I did love my mother, but I didn’t know how much until she was gone. Anna Quindlen, One True Thing Mom, you would be 91 today, but you were only 55 when death took you suddenly and unexpectedly so you’re forever
What a beautiful week it has turned out to be. Summer finally arrived bringing with her reasonably warm temperatures and sunshine and we’ve soaked it up with Daughter and Granddaughter who are visiting. Our backyard project leaped ahead with the installation of privacy barriers where the tall cedars once stood. Now we’re moving on to
The sun shines through the east facing window kissing the bunch of tulips on the dining table. The light is magical. I’d like to put the macro lens on my camera and play but there are other more pressing things to do. I grab my phone and take a quick shot to mark the moment.
From a distance the resemblance is striking. The shape of her face, the softness of her neck, the way she turns her head to speak to her companion. Occasionally I dream about her—not often, but when I do I wake wrapped in the most bitter sweetness. Closer now, and it’s her smiling almond-shaped eyes and
“What’s that noise?” Even without my hearing aids the loud, low hum distracts me from our noontime chess game. I left them off this morning because I had an appointment with the optometrist. Concentrating on changes to one sense at a time seemed a good idea. Gerry rises from his chair, looks out the window,
We enjoy barbecued burgers, a couple games of Trouble, and a hot tub. It’s still not dark enough for the surprise Gerry and Makiya have cooked up, so we watch a couple episodes of an old 80’s show on Amazon Prime and eat ice cream while we wait. The appointed time arrives. I’m instructed to keep
I’m road tripping today. And listening to podcasts, sipping good coffee, thinking deep and wide thoughts, finding writing inspiration, enjoying divine conversation, and probably pulling over to the side of the road a few times to make notes. And at the end of it all I get hugs from my loves. Practically perfect in every
This summer’s fits and starts sputter into motion again this morning. We are home after a weekend away in which we watched our granddaughter perform in a play (and witnessed the pure joy on her face during the curtain call), enjoyed an afternoon rock hunting on a remote beach with our daughter and granddaughter (something
I have empathy for the quiet and awkward woman who carried and birthed me. It wasn’t always that way, but I understand more now. Forty weeks wasn’t enough, but it was all that we had. In losing her I learned to grieve in guilty silence the loss of something I never had. I’m an expert now. Twenty-five
Yesterday, we drove the same highway we took two decades ago enroute to our honeymoon destination in Victoria, BC. We were on the way to somewhere different this time, somewhere we think we might have been before—maybe even on our way home from our honeymoon—but we’re not certain. After two decades, our memories are soft
When she arrived, nearly two weeks ago, it was still winter. The melt had just started in earnest, but the backyard—the north-facing yard—was still white. On that first day, I predicted that the snow would all be gone by the time she went home. ”Don’t talk about me going home,” she said. No, I suppose