When my mom was in her mid-80s, she asked that we visit a tattoo parlor together.
“Let’s get mother/daughter tattoos, maybe with a heart design,” she suggested. Continue reading
Ocean City NJ
Mother May I
Mother, may I laugh with you, even as you breathe
out your last memory on the Covid floor?
Oh the days we laughed, once I was a child no more. Continue reading
How Was Your Vacation, Erma?
Remember those first days of school, when the teacher asked you to write about your summer vacation? Did you focus on the days at the pool? The hours riding your bike aimlessly? Maybe your family drove for hours and hours to camp in mosquito-filled woods where the frog hums kept you up every night.
As I thought about my week vacation at the shore, Erma Bombeck came to mind. She found humor in the everyday calamities of life. Here’s a short synopsis of “what I did on my summer vacation.” 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
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
roughwighting 