Crammed in the back seat of my mother-in-law’s Dodge Omni on a February morning, I held hope as she rushed me to the hospital.
My little terrier tenderly nudged his nose toward something behind me as I brought him back into the house. I unhooked his leash, not realizing his curiosity and concern were grounded on an injured chickadee lying belly-up—just a foot from us.
A Variation on Vows Guests arrive for the celebration. Neat wrappings wait to lay crinkled. Pressed formals hang in garment bags, not knowing their fate.
Twenty-four nurses trailed into the room. They found seats within the circular configuration of chairs, where I sat. A mound of rocks rested in the middle of the circle.
At the café table, I fiddled with my iPhone as I waited for my long-lost friend. My thoughts travelled to the morning’s drive when I noticed how the barren gray twigs aspired to swell and brown sloshy fields appealed to green.
You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.
Last Friday, we sat crowded in the doctor’s office beneath white lights and the weight of a new cancer diagnosis. My in-laws, husband and I waited for the doctor to arrive and deliver my father-in-law’s pathology report.
“Write as if you were dying,” pens Annie Dillard. My relationship with dying began in 1978, the year I entered nursing school.
Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “Nooo!” exploded the grandmotherly woman capped with downy white hair. Her cries sounded more like a toddler’s tantrum.
The air snapped crisp as a freshly picked apple. The night’s storm had broken; clouds parted, skies opened. We walked before, but never like this.
Change is the stuff of life, but transitioning is the art of life. ~Karen Swallow Prior The other day I drove home from work and welcomed the season’s changes.
I stood in the produce section of my local grocery store, my hands comparing the weights of cantaloupes. Heavy enough, I thought.