I’d rather skip writing about grief. I’d rather write like poet Ross Gay in his, THE BOOK OF DELIGHTS. I smile as I read how he felt “delighted and compelled to both wonder about and share that delight.” What comes as I write is not, as Ross Gay called his essays, “something delightful.” Rather grief… Continue Reading
I dreamt about my mother’s hands last night, her long slim fingers, stunning and smooth in her youth, bony and wrinkled as she aged, black-blue and withered at her death the day after Christmas. In my dream, I saw her rings that my father bought her to honor anniversaries, for Christmas gifts, and as gratitude… Continue Reading
Years ago, young enough to squat without pinching a knee joint, able enough to push a hand mower to clip grass without a hip complaint, flexible enough to kneel, stand, crouch, and repeat without hurting yet another body part, I sat weeding our front sidewalk. A stooped woman I deemed old, whom I now consider… Continue Reading
Yesterday I waved to my husband as I left the house, “..goin’ to the bookstore for holiday cards.” I honestly believed I would buy only, merely, just cards. The shop twinkled with sparkly displays of beckoning books, bright cards, funky socks, and this-s and that-s in lovey aisles inviting me to browse, take my time, mosey. I… Continue Reading
People in my town leave the scenes of accidents. Neighbors in the nearest city fight over shelter sites. Opioid epidemic grows state-wide. Mass shootings sweep the country. Climate despair goes global. Countries compete in the space race. When I expand outwardly from here to there, this to that, often I see only the mess we’ve… Continue Reading
CREDITS
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Photoloni