It was on a Wednesday when I remembered that Monday had passed me by in a flurry of writing. I looked at the calendar in amazement. What else had I forgotten about? I called my mom. “You doing okay, mom?” I called my daughter at college. “Everything going okay, sweetheart?”
Everyone survived my absence just fine. I think I’ll start writing that new chapter now.
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I loved that car. It was the best car I ever had.
Well, so, nothing. I’m just sharing something from my past with you. Isn’t that how people get acquainted?
This is never going to work. It was nice meeting you, but I’m leaving now.
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It was a good night. She made it outside, walking on her own. The air was mild and smelled of cut grass. Omar put music on and they swayed gently together under the big oak tree. Then it was over. She fell to the ground. “I can’t,” she said, and he knew it was true. Later, when she’d rested, he’d help her back to bed.
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When I had surgery my grandson gave me a get well card. All it said was kick some ass. It was an inspiring message and I tried to be a kick ass patient during my recovery. I think it worked. Kicking ass isn’t just about being an action star in a violent movie. It’s about being a leader, a voice, an organizer and and example. Go kick some ass.
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Last night I ate a Mozartkugel, a Austrian/German confection I’d never heard of before. Someone brought it to book club for the discussion of “The Afterlife of Stars.” It set me to thinking about favorite candy that I’ve loved. Chocolate has always been the favorite, changing over the years from gooey sweetness like Mounds bars to the darkest of dark chocolates I love now. Now I happily down the 85% cocoa bars that I would have found bitter as a younger person.
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Last year was a hard one. The new year brings with it a list of things to remember. It’s now time to write 2018 first among them. But more seriously, we all need to remember that everything passes and eventually things will take a turn for the better. If we work for it, that is. The advice to be the change is still needed in this new year. Let’s make it a good one, please.
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Tired, she muttered. She stretched, moaned, and stood beside the bed. Yep, still alive. Who was that guy in the bar? She turned quickly to look in her bed. Empty. Whew! At least she hadn’t done that. She stumbled toward the bathroom. Wait. There was a phone number scrawled on her arm in fat, black marker.
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Waverly slowly became aware. She had a raging headache. Her hands were tied behind her. She was in a rough wooden box of some kind – she couldn’t stretch out. For a long time she tried kicking her way out, but she couldn’t get much leverage for her kicks. She paused, breathless, and heard the buzzing of a mosquito. It landed on her cheek.
It’s funny how many kinds of holiday food I loved in my childhood haven’t made it to the table in the present. I know why – my children didn’t like the same things, so I didn’t fix them. I long for mincemeat pie and cinnamon apples, pea salad and stuffed celery. The one thing we can all agree on, ripe olives, disappear so fast you’d think they were zapped by a ray gun. Food is part of the holiday experience, but having family around is more important to me.
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When my babies were tiny I wished they would talk to me so I’d know what they were crying about. When they were teens I wished they would talk to me so I could help them through the perils of high school. Now they are grown and they talk to me about all the other things that adults talk about: overwork, horrifying political events, worries over their kids, being stretched to the limit. I didn’t manage to raise them to have a better life than mine, which makes me sad.
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