Stories With Heart And Soul 
E. E. Cummings wrote a poem that I hold in the cup of my hands. It is that precious. He describes his love as part of his being and so pure that it transcends the heart of the natural world. The construction and punctuation in the poem makes it even more dear. This is my
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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 nearly lifeless in the lobby of the Atlanta Humane Society. A vet tech turned the corner with a hairless bag of bones dangling from her arms. It looked like a burn victim, red and blistered. She asked me if
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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 New York City where I either played inside with my miniature tea set and Kiddles or in a park with adult supervision. There was no roaming. On the weekends, my mother dropped me off at my grandparents’s home in the suburbs where there was little supervision. They had six children plus
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Mr. Pierre’s Beauty Salon was the best toy. The centerpiece was the head of a woman with golden hair sprouting from a scalp. It came with styling tools, but all I ever did was chop it. In my memory there was an endless supply. While I loved my baby doll that peed and drank milk,
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One of the best things I’ve found in my 50’s is acceptance of my mom. Growing up, Rita challenged my sensibilities and sanity on a regular basis by being lawless and the most unconventional mom in my circle by light years. Appreciating her took a long time and a lot of compassion. Rita was a
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