I was born in the March dawn, the sun shining lightly through snowflakes, welcoming the new spirit of an old soul.
I wailed to return from whence I came.
But the others encouraged me to stay. You chose this, they whispered. Continue reading
memoir
The Fish
Until recently, I had no idea how to undertake the fish.
You know, the yogic Fish Pose.
Over the years, I’ve gotten better at Down Dog and the Plank, and strong enough to accomplish shoulder stands and to hold an Up Dog for five minutes.
But my past yoga teachers never taught Fish Pose. Continue reading
Mother’s Day Cheese – Grilled
“Sit down and don’t move.”
This is the first time in my life I can order my mom around, and she has to listen!
She sits on the couch, back against the long floral armrest, head against an added pillow, legs straight in front of her on the rest of the couch, more pillows raising her feet.
“But,” she protests, “I know where the butter is, and the pan to grill the bread. Don’t use the new tomatoes, use the ones in the vegetable bin, and I’m not sure if the cheddar cheese is on the left side of the refrigerator, or the bottom shelf, and…” Continue reading
Driving with the Top Down
In honor of my mom’s 94th birthday on February 28, I’m dedicating this post to her,
I am here again, traveling along the same flat road, watching the tall green maples and oaks turn to scrubby, smaller bush and pine. What is it about my primordial need to return to the ocean – the Atlantic Ocean – every year?
As I breathe in the hot humid New Jersey air, a mixture of dirt, gas, grass, asphalt and salt water, I wonder if it’s just a childhood memory that needs to be rewritten and retold yearly. After all, as a child . . .
“Why is he traveling so closely behind you? How fast are you going?” my mother interrupts my slow, careful thoughts. Continue reading
The Joke’s on Them
When the older man enters the soda shop, Nev ignores him and continues wiping down the counter. The usual customers are teenagers right after school. But it’s 5:30 now, and Nev just wants to finish up his chores and get home.
“Coca Cola, son,” the man says. He must be over 40, and wears a business hat and fedora, carrying a briefcase. Nev fills the glass and takes it over to the bar stool.
They share some incidentals. The man works in the city and takes the train to work every day. The high schooler relates that his mom works two jobs; his dad hasn’t been around since he was 2, so he pitches in when he can.
“That you I see smoking with the Zoot suiters some days near the train station?” the man asks. Continue reading
roughwighting 