Stories With Heart And Soul 
“The best portion of a good man’s life: his little, nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love.” William Wordsworth Small acts of kindness are treats for two souls, the giver and receiver. They’re my emotional bread and butter. One of my favorite things to do is offer my spot in line at the supermarket when
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E. E. Cummings wrote the perfect poem of love. It reaches right into your soul. My favorite line is, “I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)” A heart within a heart is such a powerful metaphor. And then there’s the weight of the promise. To carry a heart inside your
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With a long pony tail high on her head, a pressed white cotton coat and a clipboard. This is how I imagined Emma the other day. She is standing in an exam room, a full-fledged physician’s assistant, which is the career she is working toward. In this no-way scenario, I can’t talk to her because
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Forgiveness was never top-of-mind when I thought about my mom. A list of childhood grievances sat on my heart for decades. Now I think about how hard it was to be a young, single mother with a mental illness. Rita did some extraordinary, hair-raising things when I was growing up, like throwing her boyfriend’s computer
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I’m in love with our foster puppy Maggie. This morning she was a toasty little bean bag in my lap. We sat in an upholstered rocker by a window, rocking and looking out at a tall magnolia and the milky sky. When she started to drift into sleep she tucked her head in the crook
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I’ve been fostering puppies for years, but I never had one like Maggie. I met her when she was nearly lifeless. In the lobby of the Atlanta Humane Society, I saw a vet tech turn the corner with a bag of bones dangling from her arms. It looked like a burn victim, red and blistered.
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I woke up this morning to a night sky and headed for my rocking chair on the porch. Stars and a sliver of the moon were still shining. Looking up I wondered why we readily make wishes upon stars and struggle to believe in ourselves. We are here in the flesh with all kinds of
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My Aunt Maureen died last month. After the eulogy, we were quiet. Some of us got hives, some got bone-tired, some put their sadness in a box, storing it for another time. In my aunt’s home we returned to our safe routines, telling jokes, crazy-but-true family stories, and cleaning. We are really good at cleaning.
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My Aunt Maureen died last month. We were planning on her living another year. The year turned into a week. I wrote her obituary asap and a eulogy with the same speed. When it was all over, I decided that obituaries and eulogies should be considered before someone dies. It sounds callous, but there is
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I grew up in a city where I played inside or in a fenced park with close supervision. On the weekends, I stayed with my grandparents in the suburbs. My mom’s youngest sister Mimi was in charge. She felt like a sister with three years between us and a room to share. We roamed freely,
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