I don’t like pot pie. Well, deep inside I do, since my blood is English – way back to my great-great grandparents. So sure, I like pot pie the same way I like rose gardens and floral wallpaper and hot tea with milk.
But I used to never eat pot pie because, to be honest, it’s fattening; all flour and butter in the crust; butter and flour in the gravy; and then a speck of chicken in there. With maybe a pea or two. Continue reading
The beauty, the splendor of bare branches is
sometimes missed by its seeming simplicity.
Each limb holds its own grace and strength,
and yet the union of each to one single trunk
magnifies and signifies the greatness of ONE. Continue reading
As I sit in the car in utter fear and mortification, counting, counting, counting, I wonder: what has led me to this humiliating, horrible experience?
Is it because of some deep-seated hatred for my brother?
No. I shake my head vehemently as I whisper 77, 78, 79… I love my brother. Continue reading
When I’m reading a book, I become a Beautiful Exile, not made of Blood and Bone and under no Rule of Law. The only Contract I’m under is between me, the author, and the characters who transplant me Through the Evil Days to a place where I can Hope for the Best and become a Dream Daughter of the reading world. Continue reading
Hanging ornaments on a Christmas tree is one of the finest pleasures of the Christmas season.
Because, of course, we’re not just hanging a silver glittery ball or a tiny red straw Santa.
We’re hanging memories.
