I hate winter. I hate snow. I hate cold, I hate ice. I mutter these words as I climb out of my soul-less and hateful car, which has just broken down on Route 2 in the middle of a once-in-a-decade blizzard.
I can’t stay in the car because the engine is dead. Kaput. Lifeless and useless. I’ll freeze if I sit in the silver-metal icebox, so I trudge ahead, looking for some kind of sign of life.
And then I see it. Or her. Or whatever he/she/it/they is. A human-like form of gossamer silver and white, waving towards me. She (for I tend to think of angels as she), is either one-half a mile away, or two yards. With the snow whipping across my face it’s hard to tell. Continue reading
Let’s start with the Pretty Things of the past year. In January and February, most of us saw no Signs of what was to become. In fact, as 2020 began I hoped that love and kindness would become The Signature of All Things.
February found me believing that I was at Such a Fun Age. I became The Sun Sister, jumping in the ocean with the humpback whales on The (Hawaiian) Island, staring in awe at The Starless Sea as my guy and I hiked cliffs and beaches. The near future was Hid from Our Eyes. Continue reading
How do we celebrate while we hide in our
Abodes, waiting for a vaccine, waiting for
Peace of mind, waiting for life to
Pierce our inertia with hope that we can soon say
Yes to traveling and hugging and eating out again? Continue reading
I’m trying desperately to avoid the knocking.
At first I thought it was the sound of one of “my” hummers knocking on the bedroom window. All summer I’d watched the hummingbirds sprint around our feeder hanging just outside the window, their long thin pointy tongues drawing sweet water out of the teeny tiny hole meant to mimic the center of a flower.
But it’s now December, the hummers have sensibly flown to warmer climes, and I’m here staring out at the window, listening to the knock on glass. But nothing is across from me on the other side of the window but falling snow. Sighing, I cross the room to my antique dresser, the one that belonged to my great-grandmother, who died years before I was born. I stand before the large oval mirror joined at the top of the dresser and framed with mahogany. Yes, there she is. Great-Grandmamma, tapping her fingernail on the other side of the speckled mirror, waiting impatiently. Continue reading
When we realized that the safest way to celebrate Thanksgiving was to basically not celebrate Thanksgiving with our family, I pouted.
I promised myself that I would be grateful for all that I had, not what I’d miss. Continue reading