A year or so before my mom’s dementia took her mind away, she shocked me by stopping in front of my digital kitchen clock and proclaiming, “4:44 – that’s a great sign! Happiness, or good luck, or something like that.” Continue reading
non-fiction
Brotherly Love
I call him, sucking in my breath and biting my tongue so I won’t cry.
He hates emotion.
But he loves me. I know that. As long as I don’t cry. Continue reading
In My Dresser Drawer
I’m a writer. And an author. A reluctantly published author. I’m disappointed with myself in that way. If I wasn’t reluctant to publish, I’d do it more. If I wasn’t reluctant to publish, I’d shout to the world that I love to write stores. If I wasn’t reluctant to publish, I’d share my stories far and wide. Continue reading
Slow Gravy Days
Gravy is rich and thick. Good gravy, anyway.
Back in the beginning of our holidays together, my guy cooked the entire turkey meal, including stuffing and gravy. When our kids were young, they observed him reach in the turkey cavity and bring out the giblets, which he cut up after boiling them in a pot of water. Then, in a pan of melting butter, he sautéed the giblets with onions and celery and slowly, slowly added the juices from the roasted turkey. Continue reading
The Hourglass of Our Life
“Time will tell.”
“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
“There’s always light at the end of the tunnel.”
“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”
“Your time is up.”
What, exactly, will time tell? Will it tell me that my days are numbered? Personally, I’d like to think that my days are worded. My days are stories, one-by-one as a child, then a dozen, then hundreds as the years roll on.
Continue reading
roughwighting 