Life. All of it. The mess of it. The questions. The lessons. The indecision. The baptism by fire and learning on the fly. The squabbles. The joy. The unbridled glee. The clamor. The silence. The negotiation and inevitable compromise. The wealth and the bankrupt. The maps drawn, erased, and replotted. The missions. The road trips. The destinations. The arrivals. The departures. The attraction. The initiation. The invitation. The aggravation. The love. The love. The love. The blood. The bruise. The… Keep Reading
… a vintage Tiffany bracelet from my lover and a beautiful day with family.
In the orchard last year with my daughter. The light was great, the weather was great, and something about the day reminded me of my dad. I see this foto snd immediately think of how much I moss and love my dad and lucky I am to have a daughter who enjoys our silly traditions like visits to the orchard and gathering good foods.
When you walk through a sea of bushes and heat and finally you arrive at spot where the perfect little berries live, you know summer is alive.
My cheeky girl after an afternoon of apple picking. This smiles hangs the moon.
This photo was taken at our favorite orchard on the last day of the picking season – a day before a 3-day torrent of rain. It was also the day I shaved off all my hair because it began shredding after my first chemo treatment. My mom and I drove out to see my daughter at school so she could go with me to do the big chop. Anyone who knows me knows my daughter is my team. I couldn’t… Keep Reading
The rain came early. Falling in pellets against the shutters, swirling the leaves and an abandoned rake into a pre-dawn vortex along the path connecting my lot to the neighbor’s. I woke early. The preset alarms on my phone alerting me the home health nurse would arrive soon to do wound care. I was nervous about meeting her: public pain is not my wheelhouse. I have a magnet, provided by the oncology social worker, with stickers of smiling and frowning… Keep Reading
These little berries on the old sour bush.
Seven years ago I stood on Church Street in Atlanta and wrote a poem comparing my lover’s kiss to the first bloom of spring.
Elizabeth in the garden surrounded by daisies, but not of the Buchanan variety.