Today my fingers cooperate if only there were more thoughts for my digits to dig down into. “Three thoughts, one mouth,” I say to buy a few seconds, to organize the bursting box cars into a forward moving train. Full stop. I am at a railroad crossing. Waiting for others to pass. Waiting. I scroll past notions and fragments, hunting a phrase worth polishing. I am here. Where are you? Who will help polish this rough carbon matter to a diamond? I am here for today’s loss of fingers, of words, of ideas to shape them. And I will show up tomorrow and the day after that. And one day I will be present to win.
Category: Fiction Fret
“I don’t think that you enjoy anything until you’re good at it,” says one of my oldest friends, trying to entice me to move out of the children’s ski area. It is the spring of 2000, that sweet spot in the aughts. The fears about the turn of the new century have fizzled and September 11th hasn’t rocked our world yet. My junior high school buddy and I are in beautiful Lake Tahoe for a long weekend. Each of us is negotiating one of life’s many curveballs; me a divorce, he a law firm move. Neither of us has ever been to Tahoe so we meet there to retreat and rejuvenate – and try something new. Lake Tahoe is the… READ MORE
I’m sorry I’ve aged. That gravity has taken its toll on my tits. That my metabolism has slowed and my discipline waned. I’m sorry that my brow furrows more and that my laugh lines appear regardless of my humor. I’m sorry that my standards grow higher as my ass lowers. I’m sorry that you think I should actually apologize for the aforementioned. In truth, I’m not sorry. Sure, there are days when, at a stoplight it’s a tough call; do I yank out an errant grey hair from my scalp or a witchy stray from my chin. Naturally, I wish that workouts were as effective and easy-to-recover from as they a decade ago …. I’d love to have gained the… READ MORE
The lariat bound them together. Literally while she strangled him. And then figuratively for the rest of her life – which was spent in the family’s attic where she would knot and unknot the very same rope that had robbed her of the title she coveted most: mother.
The shoes I will wear tomorrow are to fancy for the day. But, they will shine because my daughter will wear a matching pair. Proudly. Lovingly. Voluntarily. And we will each click our heels while we are apart And know that our souls are bonded.