Everyone has an urge to be creative. It’s important, though, to recognize one’s proper medium. I’ve picked up paintbrushes, cameras and sketchpads. I’ve satisfied my brief obsession with quilting with the completion of one potholder. And I finally had to admit that my medium is words. Read more
When I was involved in a cult they interrupted me constantly. “Enough with the story already. Just tell us in ten words what happened.”
I should’ve known better. In my life, nothing’s ever straightforward. One story is a skein from another, equally vital and germane. From there, I weave an intricate design, a pattern of words to provide a scenario, background and rationale to what occurred, what may occur and the importance of whatever I have to convey. To reduce a situation to ten words makes as much sense as Albert Camus’ character in “L’Etranger” who stated, “Au cause du soleil.” Read more
I have never been good with words
they hang heavy on my tongue like clothing lines through tenement windows
but my scars are excellent story tellers and I could talk
to the crinkles around your eyes for centuries
we kiss each other like amulets, use our bodies in place of prophets
I’ve never been good at reading between the lines
but I read your palms and came to the conclusion
that you are every word I could never find
you tell me the freckles across my shoulder blades are like Braille and only the best people can decipher my story Read more
Impatient for the day to begin
I emerge from my dark bedroom and head outside
To hurry it along
I clutch the old pilled sweater firmly against the early day
The edges of my nightgown wipe the dew from the grey green grass
I stand rooted
The morning greets me
A pine scented soft breeze washes away yesterday
As it glides gently through the family of trees
That have been here since long before me
Tall and friendly, watchful
An orchestra of leaves
fluttering and swaying
performing nature’s sweet melodies
A relentless chorus of large crows, caw magnificently Read more
In 2003 my mother started to lose her memory. It was subtle at first. We would walk on Avenue U and she would fail to come up with the name of an acquaintance or two. Nothing alarming. After a while her shopping list started to look like an art project, with drawings of mushrooms and strawberries next to the words milk and bananas. Soon the drawings faded away. In the supermarket she would say to me, “I’m looking for those red things with a little green piece and they come all together.” Sometimes it was obvious what she wanted; other times we left without the crackers or the American cheese. Read more
“Can you play the bongos?” I asked my daughter’s friend, Skye. He grunted in reply.
“I’m sorry, what was that? I just wanted to know if you can play the bongos.” He shrugged.
“Is that a yes or no?” I asked. He smirked, shrugged and then grunted.
Desperate to get around the words that weren’t happening, I placed a set of bongos in his hands and he instantly performed one of the most impressive solos I’d ever heard. When he stopped, he grumbled, “I really can’t play.” Read more
Their hands touch
across the white blanket,
The doctor says,
“It’s best not to see him like this.”
She says, “Mind your business.”
The doctor adds,
“He’s going to die soon,”
as if she didn’t know.
She holds the hands that
held hers for sixty-eight years.
His eyes open to hers.
She took him home
without interference and
When my grandson, John, was seven, he had a friend visiting who told him he was going to the libary later. John said “It’s not libary, it’s library.” Later, when my daughter wanted to know what flavor ice cream he wanted he said, “strawberry,” but then said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I mean strawbrary.”
My son runs his own business and once had an office cat, which didn’t create a problem until he hired a computer operator who was allergic to cats. His secretary said, “We’ll have to keep him outside.” The office manager replied, “But how can he operate the computer from out there?” Read more
“There is no conclusion; the story blooms.” — from “The Last Sunday in October” by Jean LeBlanc
We are all storytellers—you, me, all of us. At least one story waits in us all, waiting to be born, to make it free into the world, somehow, and change things or people, just a little bit. Perhaps children are the ones who know this best. I know I learned this from a child a long time ago... Read more
The horses stand at the gate.
“Where have you been?” ask their eyes and ears.
“I’ve been writing.”
“It’s my art of arranging words — the sounds you hear me think to express the ramblings of my mind — so many other humans may know them.”
“Primitive!” they say with a twist of lips and narrowed eyes.
“Humans aren’t horses,” I remind. “We’re a relatively new species, still trying to figure things out.”
The thought “too much figuring” takes form within, as I catch my mare’s mischievous grin and glint of eye. Read more
I did not know the girl behind the veil. I could barely see her eyes. Yet, I could feel her humiliation, her disgrace, her indignation. It stabbed at my heart to see her being treated as an outcast. These strangers treated her with contempt, simply because of her dress and her foreign tongue. A compulsion came over me. I needed to experience this persecution for myself so that I could better understand, so that I would never forget that an individual should be judged by their actions and values, not by their outward appearance. Read more
I have a black and white photograph taken in 1909 of my father Sol, who was four years old, his older sister Miriam, a younger brother Joe, his mother Leah, who looks pregnant and angry, his father Jonah, uncle Benny and his sister Rose.
The adults look solemn; the children frightened.
The men are in dark suits, the women in gowns, I wouldn’t be surprised if the clothes were supplied by the photographer. Only the children seem to be wearing their own clothes. It’s a formal, posed studio photograph taken to record a significant moment, perhaps their arrival in the United States. Read more
One evening during my mother’s last stay at the hospital, after we told her good night, my aunt and I walked uptown. On our way, we encountered a man standing outside an ethnic deli. He held out a smudged Styrofoam coffee cup. And I reached in my purse for money. Don’t do that, my aunt whispered. Read more