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