Tag Archives: death

OUR CHILDREN ARE NOT OUR CHILDREN…

Call me Saint Francis of Suburbia. My back yard is an official Natural Habitat. It’s easy. Go online, check off: Feeders, Water, Trees, and the like, pay $25 (yard flag) up to $100-plus (a bronze plaque) I went with the … Continue reading

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MENTAL ILLNESS – a mother speaks

I’m crying as I write this. This past Easter Sunday – visiting hours at Peachford Hospital. I am alone. My son, 26, unshaven, shaking, in flip-flops and torn clothes he slept in, sits alone at a table, peeling a tangerine. … Continue reading

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HOW TO STOP WORRYING AND EMBRACE BEING ALONE (even on your birthday)

“Since I gave up all hope, I feel so much better” – anonymous   I write this on my 61st birthday. I chose to be alone, and fled to the wilderness. Rather than dancing at a drunken Bacchanal or a romantic … Continue reading

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BRIEF CANDLES – AN HOUR ONSTAGE

At the end of life, the very old shrink into child-size imitations of the towering adults their children knew. Not my parents, I would have thought as a child, if I’d ever imagined such a thing. Not my parents. Those … Continue reading

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Dreaming in Color

I dreamed that all was yellow inside their windows a pale meringue light beamed in summer kitchens morning, forever, morning Girls in sweet sun-frocks twirled lemon-laced skirts for buttoned-up, tucked-in boys The sweet-acid taste of first loves hover above, yet … Continue reading

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Spinning Straw into Gold in the “Christ-haunted” South

As the unofficial official blogger for the Atlanta Writers Club, my first post was a delight – writing about Kimberly Brock, author of “The River Witch” winner of the Georgia Author of the Year in 2014 by the Georgia Writers … Continue reading

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CURTAIN CALL – THE NEW FOUNTAIN THEATER

The full moon pulls me outside and I rise or fall, like the obedient tide. Each full moon has a name, you know.  October is either Hunters or Harvest. I don’t feel like looking it up, but I’m going with … Continue reading

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INVINCIBLE SUMMER

The Buddha, as young Prince Siddhartha, was a rich spoiled brat. His father, the king, groomed his future heir. Pampering and sheltering the prince,  he kept him within the kingdom’s gates, forbidding exposure to the imperfect world beyond. Yet, like … Continue reading

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MOTHERS DAY POST MORTEM – Birth, Death and Blue Hydrangeas

  BIRTH – MAY 2, 1989 9:35 p.m.   “Is he all there? Arms, legs, fingers?” First words, after an eight-pound, 23-inch ball of flesh ruptured out of me. For eight months, since that drunken Labor Day weekend before I … Continue reading

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