I have a secret to share: This summer I read countless children’s picture books to myself—not just once, but several times, even at bedtime.
In a recent poetry workshop, we were asked to write a poem from a memory about Grief. The memory of a few trees had the power to remind me of a special person and the realities of life.
October Rose I sauntered along the border of the shimmering parking lot, past shiny-leafed plants laden with day-long drizzle. I lingered in October rain, admired the quench of leaves surrounding a show of pink roses.
For years, our unspoken promise— meet each school day at Park and Weston. We clutched books ‘til red lines formed in the soft places of our arms.
I stood in the produce section of my local grocery store, my hands comparing the weights of cantaloupes. Heavy enough, I thought.
A Look Back — I was eleven when I trudged up the hill, pulling my five-year old brother, Dave, on the snow sled.