Entering my first class two years ago, I was the oldest person in the room, feeling my age, feeling raw, feeling as if I had nothing to contribute. Sometimes I stumbled with how to contribute, how to sound intelligent in an academic world I hadn’t been a part of in decades. Often, I would go home in tears. I could not bridge this generational gap no matter how hard I tried. And I tried, determined to win these people over. The writing kept me engaged. The intrigue of the people kept me coming back.

Then, a funny thing happened on my way into the next semester…

…I entered a classroom where I knew people, classmates were happy to see me - dare I say even hug me in greeting? - and I was no longer the oldest person in the room. Ranging from late 20s to early 70s, we were a diverse group eager to write. Turns out, everyone wanted to be heard, to fit in, to contribute with their own life experiences. So, we did.

As I began to relax, my writing got stronger. As my writing got stronger, my friendships developed. As my friendships developed, I knew I belonged. I conquered the great divide, becoming the Mama Bear to the troops younger than me, often my own children’s ages, and creating connections with women of varying ages and backgrounds and traumas, all willing to be vulnerable on the page and with one another.

Simultaneously, the same thing was happening on the homefront. I moved into a new neighborhood around the time I embarked on my writing adventure, a utopian village where every home looks the same, privacy is respected, and community is encouraged. In what could be advertised as a “fifty-five and over” village but is not, I was quickly absorbed into a group of women, some old enough to be my mother, all willing to be my friend.

The acceptance was immediate, and dare I say it was because of a dog? Yes, my dog helped me make new friends as we walked the intricate loops of our new community. Who isn’t drawn to a big, sloppy Golden Retriever, and as one of the few male dogs in the ‘hood, he stood out.

There were happy hours, post-holiday Thanksgiving meals, doggie play groups, random meetups and walk-abouts - did I mention happy hours? These women knew how to take care of one another, and in turn, me. By adopting me into the fold, I began to heal. I knew I would never be alone as I aged in place alongside of them.

Since befriending these gems ranging from 50-80 years old, I have learned to play Mahjong, to ask for favors from neighbors, and to be part of a community. Heck, when you have your 80-year-old neighbor driving you to your colonoscopy appointment, you know you have landed in the right place.

This is all to say, we are never too old to learn, and we are never too old to make new friends. They enrich our lives. We learn from one another. No matter the age.

I remember the summer I became buoyant, bobbing and bouncing in my blue and white floral one piece bathing suit, my bulbous belly, which was responsible for my buoyancy, protruding from my body. I remember the summer I became buoyant, bobbing and bouncing in a crystal-clear swimming pool beneath a cerulean sky, void of clouds, soaking up the warmth of the mid-summer sun. I remember bopping down the beach in the same bathing suit a few weeks before the due date as I patiently waited for my baby’s arrival. He arrived a few weeks later, early on demand.

I remember a balmy summer night as I sat in the quiet depths of a theater, watching Nicolas Cage and John Travolta “face-off” against one another in a movie called Face/Off, a sci-fi action film barely holding my interest. I remember sitting in my seat and feeling oddly uncomfortable, and not just because of the size or the physical transformation of my body, a slight wetness between my legs. A trip to the bathroom revealed, yes, I was leaking. Back to my seat in the hush of the theater to watch the two acclaimed actors swap faces while in character and then swap back again, true identities revealed. I remember exiting the theater, waddling to the car, pausing as my amniotic fluid broke, gushing all over the curb as if I had swallowed a bucket of water, standing in shock, eyes wide open, stuck, then suddenly moving at rapid speed once realization of the inevitable hit home. The baby is coming.

I remember being sent home from the hospital. I wasn’t dilated enough. I remember pacing at home as the intensity of the contractions increased, a Golden retriever pacing along with me, worried about my pain and discomfort while the father of my child slept, asking me to wake him when I was ready. When I couldn’t stand the pain any longer, we flew down the deserted street in the middle of the night passing through every red light.

I remember a “quick” delivery compared to what would come next time around, but I didn’t know that yet. I remember holding that little miracle and never wanting a day without him. I remember 7:20 a.m. on 7/20.

I remember waking the next day to another perfect blue, cloudless sky, a picturesque view from my hospital room, a swaddled baby in a bassinet wheeled alongside my bed, my blue eyes alternating between the sky and the perfect bundle of baby boy.

*

I remember the pediatrician’s office, two young boys under the age of four in tow. We wait forever in a room after answering routine questions from the nurse. What brings you in today? Everyone eating and sleeping? The boys love the games I make up to pass the time while we wait for the doctor; Simon Says, Eye Spy, and a version of Hopscotch. I am exhausted by the time she finally shows up. I remember the doctor’s words to me, Hey, Mom. His eye is turned. Did you notice? I am horrified because the answer is, No. I didn’t notice. I remember wanting his beautiful left eye fixed immediately. How could this sky-blue eye not be perfect? Not be perfectly straight? Not have perfect vision? I remember learning the word amblyopia. When I was a kid, we called it “lazy eye.”

I remember it took weeks to get an appointment with a pediatric ophthalmologist. I was incensed. I remember how fantastic Dr. Wilson was, realizing he was worth the wait. I remember how fun his office was for kids with a big dinosaur to crawl all over, how gentle and kind he was to my son. I remember getting my son’s first pair of glasses, a thin blue frame, the left lens three times thicker than the right. I remember the bulky cloth patch with the dinosaur stamped on the front that slid over the petite frame, covering the right eye to strengthen the left. I remember this little blonde boy sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching a Disney movie with the patch covering his right eye, turn to me to say, Thank you, Mommy, because he understood there was a reason for the patch.

I remember his pre-school teacher telling me this was not the worst thing that would happen to him. She was right. I remember all the little girls in his class being concerned about the patch, running up to him to make sure he hadn’t hurt himself. I remember my son being brave and obedient, wearing that patch until it was so dirty we had to get more.

I remember taking my four-year-old son for surgery. Patching alone did not strengthen the muscles of the eye; surgery was needed to do what nature couldn’t. I remember feeling badly because I couldn’t feed him breakfast the morning of his surgery. I remember Dr. Wilson scooping my son up in his arms to take him back for surgery. I remember being grateful for small acts of kindness. I remember believing everything would be fine.

Then I waited.

I remember summer surgery recovery for him was rough. No swimming. No getting dirt in his eye. I remember trying to keep a calm environment for healing. I remember that he never complained.

I remember all the lost pairs of glasses over the years, sometimes found, sometimes lost forever. I remember bent frames hanging lopsided from his little face. I remember all his friends helping to search for the glasses on the playground, on the soccer field, even in the trash. I remember having two pairs at once, so we always had a back-up. I remember living in constant fear if he didn’t have his glasses on his eye would revert, become lazy again.

I remember thinking, wanting to believe, the day his pediatrician questioned me about his crooked eye that this was the day his eye in fact turned. The day the muscles quit. That we were in her office not by chance but for this reason. I want to believe this with all my heart because every day, every single day, I looked into those pale blue eyes and saw nothing but magic.

I am standing in the vestibule waiting for an elderly couple. I keep peering past the people entering through the automatic doors; my elderly couple has shrunk in size, slowed in pace, so I find myself simultaneously standing on tip toes and bending sideways to see past the steady stream of potential customers barraging through those magic doors.

I barely see my elderly couple coming through the vestibule, one walking slightly in front of the other, neither looking sure of themselves, almost in awe of how they got to this cavernous place. Gingerly, they inch forward. An adorable elderly couple, gracefully aging in place.

My parents.

I know - I know - how lucky I am that they can still drive to the store, walk into the store, that they are mostly healthy and that they have one another. I know. But I see the change coming. I have watched numerous friends go through painstaking alterations in their parents’ lives, have watched these friends spend countless hours trying to address aging issues no one can control, have watched them worry and cry - and say goodbye. I am not ready for any of this, but I see my future in the vestibule as they step towards me.

My biggest fear for the last several years has been how quickly can I get to them in a true emergency. I am a less-than two-hour drive away, which is mere miles, but how fast can I race to their side? For today, I put that fear aside. We are here. We are now. We are shopping.

We move around the store, head back to my childhood home, create space for the new area rug purchased. My mom is pleased; my dad is not so sure. Still, we leave it, dragging the old rug out. The rug, too, has seen better days.

They make me smile. Their kindness and love towards me are all a daughter could want; I reciprocate because it’s easy. I am teaching them how to be kind toward one another again after sixty-five years of marriage. Gentle words, soft tones. We practice at home, in the car, and at lunch. I hope they are still practicing in my absence. 😊

The truth is that they would be lost without one another.

At some point during the afternoon, they ask if they looked old when I first greeted them at the store. I smile again; tell them it looked like they were competing for last place. This makes them laugh.

As I am getting ready to depart, my mom asks for “one more thing.” Little does she know, she could ask for ten more things, and I would gladly do them all. It’s a high reach situation that is simple enough to accomplish but my dad is having none of it, insisting he can attend to the task. Too late. I am quick on the draw, finishing the chore before he can get involved in spite of his low grumbling

.

My dad’s parting words, as always, are, Let us know when you get home. Sometimes I forget, but today I remember. Tons of traffic but I’m home, I text. His response comes quickly, You made our day!

We are all a little less lonely, a little more connected. The visit is a victory. The aging is graceful. 💕

What I did inherit was a beautiful, mature, stately weeping cherry blossom tree, the dominant focal point of the back yard. It cannot be missed, and yes, I inherited it in its full glory, spring being its “moment,” in full bloom for a few short weeks, displaying bright pink blossoms that fade to a soft, pastel shade right before the petals drop.

In addition to supplementing the springtime palette of my backyard, this forty-year-old plus timber offers privacy, a shield from the outside world, even in the winter when the branches are bare. As cars glide past on the nearby road or sit idling during rush hour, I can hear them, but they cannot see me. Standing at the full-length windows in my PJs, sipping coffee, no one is the wiser. Except for the birds.

Did I mention the birds?

It is also hard to believe I didn’t notice the birds sooner. Sure, I hear them (I have a friend who can identify them by sound, but I’m not that inclined), but after pausing to spend fifteen minutes relaxing on my deck with another nature-loving friend, we spotted them simultaneously. The birds, daintily darting in and out of the boughs, perching on the tip of a branch strong enough to support their petite bodies, furtively and furiously seeking the fruits of the weeping cherry, miniscule red dots dangling in clumps.

I am drawn to the tree - and the birds - everyday now, as if seeing it all for the first time. Numerous robins, regal cardinals, common grackles, a mourning dove or two, and a newly discovered, now favorite, Cedar Waxwing, a brownish-yellow bird with tufted feathers on its head and a red tip at the end of its wing feathers. These avians are plentiful as they dance throughout the tree daily. Even the rain doesn’t keep them away.

Shortly after settling into my new abode, several arborists provided quotes to prune the tree, overgrown and in need of attention. One knowledgeable arborist explained, after viewing the backyard centerpiece, how weeping cherries have a lifespan of approximately 40 years; this tree, my tree, is on borrowed time. Since hearing that statement, I have watched two smaller versions of this species be excavated beyond my fence, a gaping hole just now beginning to fill in; it took a while for me to adjust to the altered view. Now, I fear for the life of my tree.

This aged sapling IS my backyard. It is a safe haven and food source for the assorted flocks that frequent its cherry laden limbs. It is my barrier from the outside world. It is a part of the landscape that comes with a life span, and one day it too will expire.

I was there from the beginning, from before you were born.

I was there when your tiny foot kept kicking me from the inside, letting me know you were almost fully baked and ready to be sprung. I was there when you decided to sit on my lower left side causing me to wince as I heaved myself up off the couch. It was your favorite resting place inside the warm cocoon of my body, leaving lasting repercussions only to be fixed by a chiropractor years later. I was there, waiting for you to give me the signal, let me know it was time.

I was there when my water wouldn’t break to officially announce your impending arrival. Instead, I paced and grimaced with contractions until it was time to go to the hospital. I was there when the doctor broke the amniotic sac, water gushing all over the table, nurses suddenly springing into action. I was there when you refused to be born, your head bobbing back and forth like a cork in a bottle, stubbornly refusing to come out of the birth canal.

I was there when the doctor’s shift changed, foolishly thinking a second labor and delivery would be easier than the first, downcast that I had been in the delivery room so long that a new doctor was taking over. I was there when the first epidural wore off, then the second. I was there when the second doctor finally used forceps to extract you, leaving scratches and bruises all over your handsome face, causing Grandma to nickname you Rocky. Yes, I was there when you were born, making our family complete

I was there when your 21-month-old brother came to meet you in the hospital, more interested in me than you. I was there when the nurse told me not to lift anything heavier than a laundry basket full of clothes. I was there when the nurse also told me to ask the doctor for an extra prescription for Percocet; she said I was going to need it. She was right. I was there when we took you home, me still wearing maternity clothes that were starting to become baggy, being greeted in the yard by your brother and our dog, your little face practically healed.

My Caboose

I was there when you left your permanent imprint on my body, a varicose vein resembling a vortex on the inside of my right calf, a permanent reminder of carrying precious cargo for nine months. I was there when I had to buy new shoes a half size bigger because my foot expanded after sustaining and subsequently producing an 8 pound, 13-ounce baby from my five-foot five-inch frame.

I was there when your big brother dragged your car seat across the kitchen floor to make sure you didn’t get left behind on day-to-day excursions, exclaiming, Mikey too, Mikey too! I was there when I was exhausted from nursing an infant and chasing a toddler, two sets of diapers changed all day long, sometimes in tandem, sometimes not.

I was there when you crawled so fast, beelining across the floor to get to a toy first, realizing I might need two of everything. I was there when I rocked you before bedtime, your bright, alert eyes touching each part of my face, naming them accordingly, Eyes, nose, cheeks, mouth…a nighttime ritual that lasted for months. I was there when you didn’t want me to leave your room, always calling out, Ma! I was there sneaking out of your room, after the ritual, hoping you were asleep, tiptoeing every-so-quietly, hoping I would avoid the loose floorboard that would creak, hoping the dim light from the hallway wouldn’t wake you. Ma!

I was there when you learned to walk at 10-months, always trying to keep up with your brother. I was there when you took 45-minute naps while your brother blissfully slept for three hours. I was there in the basement, in the backyard, in the driveway, entertaining you, playing with you, teaching you while your brother peacefully napped. I was exhausted but I was there.

I Was There…

I haven’t been to this dog park in years. My gorgeous golden boys got old. They couldn’t run as freely, arthritis wracked their hind quarters, slowing their pace. Sprinting nimbly in the woods became the past. Slow walks in the neighborhood became our reality. Two dogs became one, then one became none. And just like that, I was no longer a dog hiker let alone a dog walker.

When I finally returned to our shared happy place, dogless, distance placed since our last visit together, my heart didn’t ache the way I anticipated. Rather, I reveled in the memories of my canines, clamoring for freedom, running ahead with a small pause and a look over their shoulders to make sure I was coming, rolling in smells that lingered long after we left the trail, sniffing other dogs along the way, and jumping into the back of the car with exhausted smiles plastered across their furry faces.

Remembering our shared adventures (and misadventures) brought a smile to my face as I watched other dogs of all breeds, shapes, and sizes dart past unable to contain their excitement. I felt peace, a sense of contentment for all the hikes gone by and for all the hikes in the future, even if without a couple of canines in tow.

Dedicated to the one who hiked with me only a few shorts months after saying goodbye to my last golden. It was the walk in the woods I needed. Thank you. ❤

The process of packing starts by dragging the suitcase out of the dark and into the light, lining up packing cubes of various sizes, and picking out nonessentials that can be packed early to make the packer – me – feel an early sense of accomplishment. I won’t miss a spare pair of PJs or socks, so let the packing commence to prove to myself I am not waiting until the last minute. Inevitably, however, I will. Wait. Until the night before. To finish packing. Fingers crossed each item folds, rolls and fits neatly into each cube, then stuff them like sausages into the suitcase.

The stress kicks in when the weather forecast for the destination is checked once, twice, at least ten times to ensure temperature accurate clothing is selected for the journey. Light to layers to heavier except heavier takes up more room, so heavier keeps getting removed. Back to layers and creating options and being fine with repeat wear if necessary. Am I sweating yet? Basics are substituted in after removing another sweater. After 24-hours of switching and swapping, the suitcase is shut and I promise not to open it again until I arrive at my destination. I am able to keep this promise to myself.

The covert operation takes place at the airport as I cleverly wheel my suitcase past anyone in an authoritative position who would dare to tell me my bag must be checked, my lame attempt to hide my suitcase in case it doesn’t come in under the weight and size limit. We cannot be separated on this leg of the journey, my suitcase and me, so when there is a distraction at the boarding gate, it’s full wheels ahead down the gateway and onto the plane as an overhead bin is secured. Eight hours and a continent away, my efforts don’t go unrewarded. A traveling companion’s luggage is held up for three days as she soldiered on in the same clothes in a scenario now affectionately known as The Sisterhood of the Traveling Gray Sweater. Believe me, she wore it well.

The relief sets in at my hotel when the suitcase is opened, gently removing each packing cube so clothes are accessible for the duration of the stay. Each cube packed neatly at home is sorted according to category: fancy attire for New Year’s Eve complete with an extra handbag and booties; casual attire for daytime touring which can easily roll over into nighttime dinner outfits; leisure-ware for comfy days and downtime; T-shirts, quarter zips, and PJs; and unmentionables which occupy the least space in their own tiny cube. Extra socks were stuffed into the booties while jewelry and belts fit into the additional crossbody bag so this savvy packer could save space. In the end, the same earrings are worn all week and the booties only once, so the question arises of Why bother with extra anything? Options. It is always good to have options.

The conundrum begins at the end of the sojourn when the process must be repeated in reverse. After a harried yet fun week of tours and travel, the clothing categories have miraculously jumbled together, they won’t roll as neatly as for the initial packing, and nothing seems to make sense anymore. No need to panic – yet. There is a rush, a frenzy, to make everything fit compactly. This traveler seems doomed. I’ve purchased a this and a that, I’ve reorganized and become disorganized, and now I have dirty clothes. I attempt to comfort myself with self-talk: Just wear it home. The truth is, only so many clothes can be worn on an international flight, so I keep stuffing the bejesus out of my bag until everything not being worn is packed.

The panic sets in when the realization hits home that sneaking the suitcase on as a carryon isn’t going to work on the return flight. This baby barely zips. All effort is needed as I strain and coax the suitcase to close. Yes, I am sweating now. Mission accomplished after the zipper got stuck several times around, but we are homeward bound. I’m in awe of how the bag has grown in size, swollen like a mosquito on a hot summer night. During the repacking process, I have made peace with the fact I will be parting with my tethered friend when we arrive at the airport. Sigh.

The freedom feels false as I meander the long corridors of the airport without the comfort of my suitcase rolling along beside me, holding my breath across the Atlantic that my blue bulbous bag will greet me at baggage claim on that carousel of chance. I put the worry out of my mind because, like my suitcase, the conclusion to this travel saga is out of my hands. I watch movies nonstop, wishing the plane to fly like the wind so I can rise from this cramped seat and reclaim my luggage.

The frustration sets in as one navy blue bag after another comes out of the gaping mouth of baggage claim, spitting out the pieces of luggage like a seasoned baseball player emitting gobs of chewing tobacco, yet not one of them is my bulbous blue satchel. Worry creases my already furrowed brow as I chase any wayward navy bag around the conveyor belt in case, I was wrong and did not recognize my own suitcase. No luck. I wait some more.

When my solitary piece of luggage finally emerges from the abyss, I lunge, grab, and bolt. Homeward bound in an Uber, I contemplate a new, lighter piece of luggage for my next sojourn, one that doesn’t grow to epic proportions when stuffed, one that isn’t so 2017, one that doesn’t make me panic each time I board a plane. One, that is willing to travel with me in an uncomplicated fashion while simply being a fashionable accoutrement. 😉

This article was drafted on a bus from Cantania to Napoli, crossing the Ionian Sea on a ferry. An earlier entry “Eat, Drink, Write,” captures my purported “writing” retreat in Sicily, a beautiful experience, yet this is what I chose to write about, the luggage I dragged back and forth across the Atlantic. Indeed.

And sometimes,

Just sometimes now,

I still mourn…

The loss of my inner child,

The spirit I once held between my fingers

The person I could have been.

I still mourn…

The family I lost,

The “what could have been” for us,

Our best efforts

Broken from the beginning.

I still mourn…

The moments wasted, the time lost

On a life that wasn’t meant for me

But the life I lived anyway.

And sometimes,

Just sometimes now,

I stop mourning the loss and pick up the living.

I don’t want to mourn a past I couldn’t control.

I want to live in the present where I can be…

Light is the heart held gently in the palm of a hand. Cautious are the steps to healing; hard is the path to trust, to being whole again. Patience is played, time given, honesty heard. A beginning? A new beginning to a familiar story. An old story that feels brand new. Comfort as the heart is no longer weighted, buoyant as the ocean waves. Finally living, finding a way back to the start. Healed? Yes. Whole? Yes…A story full of possibilities. Endless, easy, energy restored. Smiling the days away as faith is restored, as she becomes a believer again. In life, in love, in harmony. Calm now, lifted by the gentle palm.

I just returned from my own version of Eat, Pray, Love, and while I did eat, pray, and love, the title of my tome is better scripted as Eat, Drink, Write, except we didn’t do much writing, even though that was the focal point of the trip. Instead, we toured and toured and toured. Along the way, we talked and talked and talked. Life experiences were shared while topics and titles were suggested for one another on future writing projects. It was cathartic.

Eat, Drink, Write began with a whirlwind stay in Siracusa, Italy, where we were quickly immersed in the culture starting with an historical lecture (Sicily was the center of European commerce for centuries, until “someone” set sail in 1492 to discover new land…fascinating!); sightseeing of catacombs, cathedrals, and miracles; pasta making, wine tasting, attending a concerto and a live nativity scene to close out the Christmas season. A few days were interspersed with writing workshops lead by an American author living in Brussels, authenticating the title of my trip.

We didn’t end there. Generating ideas for future writing continued on a bus followed by a ferry ride to Calabria where we continued to eat and drink (think more pasta and fine wine!) our way through this beautiful country. Truth be told, some actual pen to paper took place during down time on the bus as we made our way to the final destination, Napoli, famous for its cameos and…inventing PIZZA in its modern form. Yum! Artwork, archeological sites, and gelato consumed us as we soaked up our remaining days on the mainland. The journey ended with a farewell pizza dinner, naturally, a toast to our gracious, patient guide, and final thoughts jotted hurriedly in our notebooks lest we forget too soon.

While I am far from completing Eat, Drink, Write 😊, I thoroughly enjoyed gathering the “data” with so many talented, like-minded writers. The topping on the pizza, though, is when writers get together; we inspire one another to write. The eating and drinking along the way only enhance the flow of creative juices.

I’m a hot, sweaty mess as I climb the stairs in search of my classroom. I enter. Introductions are already taking place. There is a young man my son’s age speaking, announcing where he went to college, coincidentally, the same university as me. He is sweaty too. I try to endear myself to him (let’s call him W) by pointing out this fact. He nods. Nonplussed. It’s the last week in August; the semester is just underway. Everyone is a sweaty mess.

Strangers to me, intimidated by their brilliance, I tread quietly, cautiously, inserting opinions, snippets of my written work. Eventually, they take me in, but we are weeks away from acceptance. My talent is raw, my writing weak, yet I soldier on.

A few months into the semester, I cry. After class. At home. I am not good enough to keep up with these smart, young people. Generational differences. What value do I bring? I don’t GET IT! How am I supposed to show, not tell, the story?

These intuitive people listen attentively to my pain unravel, encourage my writing, and somehow make it okay to “write it out of me.” No judgement in spite of their own hardships; we all put anguish into words, and story by story, we share. The stories become part of the healing process. Not all of these written words are for public consumption, though.

Final reading of the semester. In the Castle by the Christmas tree. I volunteer to go first. My story makes people cry. I’m happy for the emotions stirred by this piece but did not anticipate tears. I am applauded and embraced for my presentation. In nine months, this story will be published. My healing has begun.

Listening to the stories of my peers, hearing their vulnerabilities, acceptance of their trauma with just a dab of wit for good measure, also helped clear my way for clearer thinking, stronger writing. Maybe, just maybe, my woes are more manageable. Possibly, just possibly, their wounds are deeper than mine. I’ll try a different approach to my writing, my storytelling, my passion. Let me try…

Second semester. There are familiar faces this time around. W is one of them. As a greeting, he hugs me. He is a self-proclaimed hugger. My writing becomes steady. I stand at the podium and read my work with a confidence I didn’t possess six months ago. This time around, they like what I put down on the page.

My life is fuller and richer for having the opportunity to share this passion for the written word with my talented classmates of varying ages and backgrounds. Because of them, I shed the layers of grief one narrative at a time. I don’t want my journey with them to end. Can it go on forever, not just until my heart’s content?

The semester is almost over. I get a text from W. “Happy Mother’s Day!” I cry again. They have accepted me. I am one of them.

The end to this calendar year has a different feel, a different flare as the days wind down to the finish line. December ends on a high note as I embrace the opportunities coming my way; I anticipate big things for myself in 2026 (How’s that for a proclamation of confidence coming from someone who hasn’t rocked it in a while???). And I predict much of it will come through the written word.

Spring term is a few weeks away. W and I will be writing in the same classroom again. It will be our last class together as W is slated to graduate in the spring. Who will carefully edit my essays, gently suggest strong titles for my pieces, use words like ‘evocative’ to describe my piece about the ocean? How will I write without him?

The year ends…a new one begins. And so, the healing is done…Ciao!

The task was simple: select a plain piece of paper from the pile and three colored pencils of my choice from the box. Blue, green, purple. The same color choices I made last time I was tasked with this task. I knew what was coming and cringed, my fingers tightening around the slim pencils with dull points. When I got back to my seat, I put my head in my hands. I am a writer, not an artist. I was going to struggle with the assignment.

I was sitting next to my friend Nancy who I started this writing journey with, but she is an artist in addition to being a writer. I already knew her creation would be magnificent, but I followed the instructions and prayed there would not be a required reveal. To my credit, I never peaked at Nancy’s work but forged my own path of destruction via colored pencils.

Fold the paper in half. On the front, draw a flower. A flower of your choice. You will not be judged on your drawing.

My ‘go to’ daisy appeared once again near the bottom of what could be considered the front page of a greeting card, if we were to take this exercise that far. Since I had a green pencil in my possession, I assembled a lifelike stem and leaves; the petite daisy was a colorful blue and green, floating in the lower portion of the page, surrounded by an ocean of white space.

Next, on the inside left, draw a tree.

Lucky green pencil in hand again, I draw my best version of a conifer with a blue trunk firmly holding up the massive weight of this tree. In a few weeks’ time, I will be bringing said conifer into my home to decorate for the upcoming holiday. For now, my lovely effervescent evergreen stays on the page, also floating mid-page. None of my drawings are grounded.

Now, draw yourself. Yes, a self-portrait. It can be as simple as a stick figure. No judgement.

Yes, yes, I will be drawing myself as a stick figure, same as I did last time, same as I will next time. The face - my face - appears ghoulishly clownish with dots for eyes and nose, a crooked grin beneath making me look manic. I can’t stand the sight of my rendering so I quickly start coloring over this facade, faintly so my stick-self can still be seen but the unsightliness has been hidden. Soon enough I have boxed my stick-self in. I am behind a door.

The last thing I want you to do is draw an arrow to some part of your body on your self-portrait. Anywhere. Then I want you to reflect.

This is the easiest part of the assignment. I draw an arrow with a loooong shaft and point it directly to the left said of my chest. The arrow might puncture the skin, but the wound is already there.

Now we write. This is the point of the exercise; take ten minutes to find inspiration from what we have drawn. Free write. Let’s go. The classroom remains silent as we busy our thoughts forming sentences to tell a snippet of a story.

When it comes time for the optional share, Alice, who sits directly across from me in our circle of desks, volunteers to go first. Alice exudes confidence, strolling into class last often donning her trademark hat, leading thought-provoking discussions, and challenging me to be a better writer, although I sense slight doubt bubbling under the surface, a side she doesn’t want to show. She reads her brief piece, gleefully displays her drawings. Flower, tree, self-portrait each taking up an entire page. Larger than life, wanting to be seen. Alice refuses to shy away from the limelight. No floating objects, no white space. Not even a speck. I want to be more like Alice.

Nancy to my left volunteers next. By the time she finishes, there are audible sobs and sniffles heard around the room. Her story is true, difficult to tell, but honest. I love her bravery; no mother should have to write her words of sorrow. As expected, her artwork is excellent, and, ironically, she has drawn an arrow to her heart as well. While our internal wounds come from different places, we understand grief.

No longer able to shed tears, I break the tension not by sharing my written words (haven’t they heard enough about my broken heart in the past year?) but by boldly displaying my stick-self hidden by a door. I proclaim how I want to be Alice whose flower blooms all over the page, how I want to be Nancy, intricately weaving her words and artistry across the pages, how I no longer want to stand invisible behind a door. I want to be heard more than be seen, but I start by removing the arrow in this room, in this safe space where I am not judged.

No one else shares on this night, but everyone laughs at my comic relief.

I have been heard.

I look up from my computer, smile, pause my thoughts, fingers stop typing. He either has something on his mind or nothing at all, searching for a reason to break up the monotony of the workday. He chooses to “stop by my office,” a mere flight down from his own workspace in my home, to check in, for an update, or to vent. We are temporary roommates co-existing in a familiar, comfortable pattern, that of mother and son.

Some days he crosses the threshold, choosing one of the two blue swivel chairs placed near the plate-glass windows which offer natural light while I write. Often, one chair is occupied by a gray striped tabby with white paws, curled up into the tiniest ball his bulky body will allow. My son offers the cat some gentle strokes, and in return, the cat murmurs sleepy appreciation. As he selects the empty swivel chair, I feel like a doctor with a patient or an accountant with a client positioned behind my desk; thus, we begin our daily chat.

But today is different. Today he does not cross the threshold. Instead, he leans casually against the wooden frame, not taking the step down into my sunken office but choosing to converse with some distance between us. Our days together have dwindled into just a few. Or maybe more. He hasn’t decided. I don’t push for finality because I am sorry to see him go. But this has to happen. I will let him decide the when.

When the workday is over, he packs the last of his clothes and belongings, heads out the door to his new apartment, a mere 1.2 miles away. I stand awkwardly by, offering to help carry items out to his car. He packs the vehicle like a man who has done this a time or two before.

With no traffic, I can make it to his new place - with a pizza to share - in six minutes; at rush hour, I might as well give myself forty-five minutes because traffic will be brutal, cars lined up like a snake in both directions, everyone trying to get in and out of the borough. A mere congested road dividing the townships where we reside. However, I won’t be visiting every day or even every week. This boy has lived independently before in major cities, hours and flights away. I can resist the proximity as I wait for an invitation.

My son’s new apartment is a bright space that suits him. The hallways are filled with aromatic smells resembling a hotel stay, little dogs barking intermittently behind locked doors, and other young professionals idly entering and exiting the elevator. Methodically, he has furnished and decorated to make this space his own. It feels right. He will do well here.

After his departure, I peak in his vacated room, at the debris left behind. Open mail discarded on his dresser, a pair or two of shoes that might have a permanent place here, remnants of his younger life moved carefully from his childhood home to recreate that room in my new home. Now the memorabilia will remain with me as a shrine to the first two decades of his life. The room will smell faintly of him for the next few months. I hope it lingers longer.

My phone buzzes, snapping me out of my reverie. My son is calling from his new apartment which I imagine I can see from my backyard, but there is too much foliage, too many trees blocking my view to his new residence, only 1.2 miles in the distance. I pretend I can see across the township line. I picture him on the phone, casually calling me with an update, something he forgot or something he still needs to purchase.

Instead, I think I’ll stay here tomorrow night.

Of course. You should.

An end…and a beginning. Just like that.

The cards were stiff and new, clinging to one another, not wanting to leave the comforts of the stack. Carefully I selected a card slightly to left, not dead center, out of the stack. It contained the quote:

We call ourselves not only what we are but what we seek to be.

Silently, pensively, I pondered the words. I know who I am, what I am, simply by “being,” descriptors already put into place by virtue of my birth. I am a baby, a daughter, a sister before I even leave the hospital. These roles were chosen for me. These are the roles I live by. But there is more.

What do I seek to be?

I am a girl, a niece, a goddaughter, a cousin, now an aunt. Even a great-aunt. At one time I was a granddaughter, but no more. I am a friend, a neighbor.

I am a girl with choices.

As I grew up and out into the world, I begin to define myself on my terms, looking at choices available to me, honing skills suited for my success, and proceeding. For years I was a student, then a student-athlete, a teammate, a forward, an outfielder, a captain. Eventually I was a college coed, a sorority sister, a vice president, a waitress, an intern, a woman.

I am a woman with choices

Upon graduation, I became a working girl; thought I would work forever. A career woman who wore cheap suits and Reebok sneakers on the train. Then I quit. Became a student again. A serious student this time around with no distractions. Graduate student, student teacher, teacher.

Sometimes I was a girlfriend, finally a fiancée, then a wife, an in-law, a partner for life. Thirty years later, I am none of these.

Fortune found me. I sought to be a mother, a mom, a caretaker, a nurturer, and so I am. This was the role for me. Working mom, stay-at-home mom, pet mom, soccer mom. Life outside of the house lead to school volunteer, gala co-chair, new friend, tennis player, captain again, chairwoman, divorcee, graduate student once again. Still a mom. Forever a mom.

What do I seek now?

An evolution.

I’ll write my own story. No rush. I’ll figure it out. Turn the pages of this tired tale, end the chapter, close the book, create something new in its wake. Yes, writing. Cathartic, cleansing, closure. Writing a new narrative as I move forward.

A writer thoughtfully wrote…we can be what we seek to be.

I seek to be a writer.

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Summer, days as long as the “striped” hair flowing down a young girl’s back, begins with the morning buzz of mowers and cicadas in competition for creating the most commotion as the heat begins to rise, opening up to a cerulean sky full of cotton ball clouds and endless possibilities. Summer sounds outside the window calling…slow to rise, eager to get after the day.

The afternoon unfolds into adventure; bike rides to the pool, suntan lotion applied only once, the lifeguard’s shrill whistle piercing eardrums as countless calls of Marco Polo are heard from end to end in the abyss of cool, aquamarine water. Sticky popsicles melt in small hands, dripping down chins in a trail of red, blue, orange, as storm clouds come rolling in changing the sky instantaneously, from celeste blue to charcoal gray followed by booms of thunder signaling a mad exodus from the pool. Summer’s storm cools the pavement and air, steam rising from the ground as bikes are pushed up the incline of Main Street, fatigue setting in behind bloodshot eyes, beneath sun-bleached hair, short legs fighting to hang on for one more step…

At home, corn from the local farm is husked, fresh produce for dinner skewered with mini-corn holders so the ears of corn won’t slip out of greasy hands, the meal served on the red picnic table dotted with citronella candles to keep the pesky flies at bay. Burgers and dogs on the grill, a slice of juicy watermelon on the side, enough iced tea to keep everyone wired all night. Re-energized. Pile into the car for a drive to the custard stand where soft serve cones are selected, refreshing, smooth texture on tongues as the chocolate side of the curly-Q swirl blends with the vanilla. Summer perfection.

Nighttime approaches as the hands on the clock push toward darkness. Clean jelly jars emerge, void of the juicy homemade strawberry jam prepared in June, and holes are punched into the metal lids. Gingerly, grass is added to the depths of the jars, creating a soft, safe haven for fireflies, a catch-and-release ritual. The hunt is accompanied by an orchestra of finely tuned crickets playing softly underfoot and an occasional bat, a swirling silhouette in the dusk, as he feasts silently on insects. The alluring lightning bugs are tracked, abundant in the fields, the bushes, the grass, creating temporary nightlights in a jar before finding freedom in the cool night.

Darkness overtakes the sky, and eyelids are heavy from the day. Finally, inside. Baths to remove grass stains from stinky feet, shampoo to detangle the “striped” now knotted hair, window fans set in motion on slow, white noise to the night sounds trickling in, an occasional cat fight, a watchful owl, the waning cricket symphony in the distance as sleep takes over. Later, Mom will sneak in to turn off the fans when the room cools down, allowing the sounds of competing morning mowers and cicadas to enter the screened windows as the sun peaks over the mountains in the East, a hint of early rays hovering over sleeping girls, slow to rise in anticipation of the day. Summer on a loop. More possibilities because today, and every day, is Summer.

Endless days, serendipitous nights. Memories made, memories shared. Summer.

No fancy gadgets or the season’s latest sweater/shirt/blouse/coat/shoes or ostentatious meal at a restaurant or a plethora of other things we could gift them. Just our time. It is that simple.

This past Father’s Day, I buckled into my sporty SUV, made a solo trip for the second year in a row and headed into a scenic part of the state, rolling green mountains on either side of the highway as I drove into higher elevations to spend an afternoon with my dad. I brought a light jacket because if you know, you know - you might need one in the mountains at this time of year. Seasonal unpredictability.

Upon my arrival, there was the usual meet-and-greet with hugs and “can I help” you offered five times before I entered the house. My parents are gracious yet often forget their age and limitations. I won’t remind them. 😉

I know the fine dance that will take place before we settle; where to sit, what to do, how to pass the time. This part is simple too. We talk. Converse. Reminiscing about the past that makes us laugh yet sometimes sigh and faded memories we may recollect differently. Catching up on our day-to-day lives since we don’t see one another as often as we would like. Pondering what the future holds for them, for me, for their grandchildren.

Throughout the visit, we change locations within the house three times, living room, kitchen, and finally the porch when the weather seems to hold (I didn’t need my jacket after all). But the majority of the afternoon is spent in the kitchen where we nosh on juicy burgers and rich chicken quesadillas from the local pub; no one is grilling on this given Sunday. We linger at the table, wiping grease from our lips on thin paper napkins, still chatting, when the entertainment arrives. The birds (no, not The Birds, but NEPA birds!).

It’s a colorful array of Pennsylvania backyard birds, flitting and fluttering about a petite feeder, some stay to crunch seeds in their miniscule beaks, some choose to take flight as soon as they make contact, too jittery to stay put. Some come in groups and some come in pairs; the distinguished cardinal makes bold attempts to swoop in but is uncomfortable with us sitting on the other side of the glass while his muted-brown mate sits patiently in the bushes, waiting to see what he can carry inside his bill. All afternoon we are delighted with finches and sparrows and wrens and chickadees of varying colors and sizes. When the majestic blue jay arrives, the masses scatter and make room for his wingspan; he is larger than any other species who stops by to dine except the crow who watches warily from the phone line spanning across the yard.

A Google search quickly reveals charts of Northeast Pennsylvania (NEPA) birds so we can easily identify unfamiliar visitors from pictures. During my sister’s visit on Mother’s Day, my parents started a list of their feathered guests, and now I am happy to append the growing inventory, adding familiar sightings such as the cardinal and blue jay as well as a new entry, the pine siskin, described as a finch dressed like a sparrow, cute with thin brown stripes across his downy white breast showing up in abundance with several of her kin.

For Christmas, my parents received this bird feeder from their first grandson, the second oldest grandchild. It is a small, clear acrylic feeder, flat, not quite two feet long, with a ledge for the birds to hang onto as they nibble at the birdseed. It is equipped with suction cups to attach to the outside of the large bay window, the perfect spot to watch feathered friends soar in to eat, preen a bit on the ledge of the feeder, and take off at the slightest movement or sound. Simple pleasures, the same way the afternoon is playing out. No intrusions, except for one pesky squirrel who tries to noisily claw his way up the siding of the house, making his tiny head visible to peer inside before my dad goes out to spray the surrounding area with a repellant.

The deep windowsill has been cleared of trinkets and knick-knacks so my parents’ friendly black cat who suffers from ‘only-cat-syndrome’ won’t knock anything over as she vies for a birds’ eye view of the birds. Some varieties won’t land while Miss Shadow swishes her tail in eternal patience for the fowl she will never reach, staring them down with her yellow-green eyes, pupils’ mere slits in the sunlight, while other fledglings pay her no mind. It is a great source of entertainment for Shadow as well as for us watching her be amused. Simple. Even Shadow knows.

For days after my departure, my parents kept sending me snapshots of the flocks who repeatedly returned to feed. It is hard not to continuously catalogue the varied species on the other side of the glass or to tear yourself away lest you miss a new visitor coming for dinner, but it was an afternoon well spent, whiling away the hours on this Father’s Day, which honestly, was for the birds.

.

We had several seasons to prepare for this farewell, to adjust our mindset, to find distractions from the inevitable. Heck, we even called it the Farewell Tour as we made the most of each outing, spreading ourselves thin and leaving chaos in our wake. But time whittled away quickly as it will when you treasure the moments. Before we knew it, we only had a year, and suddenly her looming departure was a few months away which quickly turned into weeks, and now it’s only a matter of days. By the end of the week, she will be gone.

The first memory I have of my person is vivid, imprinted in the recesses of my mind forever…

Fall 1982. Sophomore year of college. A cavernous auditorium full of college coeds preparing to rush a sorority, hoping to make a good impression, crossing fingers they would get selected by their first choice. We are weeks away from crossing that finish line, however, and must go through this arduous process first.

My future person is sitting two rows in front of me, slightly to my right. My person, who was not my person yet, is beaming, a bright glorious smile plastered on her face, excited in this electric atmosphere, her excitement contagious as she quickly clasps hands with anyone who will hold hers, nodding knowingly in everyone’s direction. The infectious smile never leaves her face, and even though I have never seen her on campus before, I am drawn to her energy.

Two weeks later, we find ourselves in the same pledge class, arms linked together for seven weeks as we sprint around campus adhering to every whim of the sisters. I become the glue holding our pledge class together; she the confetti, making the fifteen of us laugh during sleep deprived days and interrogation nights.

I became a happier, lighter person for being around her. Lucky, lucky me.

After graduation, we gravitated back to our respective hometowns, losing touch but not losing our connection. (Decades later we marveled at our ability to find one another in spite of moves and marriages, careers and kids.) Life kept changing at a brisk pace. She got married young; I was there. She moved to Long Island; I went to visit. Quietly, she got divorced and came back to Pennsylvania, picking up where we left off, our worlds getting closer once again.

A decade after graduation, she succumbed to wearing a floral Laura Ashley dress resembling a tablecloth to be a bridesmaid in my spring wedding (the things friends do for one another). A few years after my wedding, my person remarried, becoming a mom to a three-year-old girl, raising her as one of her own because that is who she is - big heart, generous soul.

Four years passed. Both pregnant. Finally. We had our first babies the same year, three weeks apart, joking that someday they might get married. But as it will, life got in the way. Raising children, immersed in our own families, we became lost to one another, missing milestones as well as day-to-day events in one another’s lives. Christmas cards were exchanged, annual group brunches and an occasional couple’s dinner planned, but it felt far and few between. Not enough, but it would have to do. Yes, life.

My absence was more pronounced, missing opportunities for fun and frolicking together, and while there are reasons for my hiatus, this story is about us, not that. So, in the beginning of our fourth decade of friendship, I found my way back to her. I missed her uninhibited fun, her unapologetic frolicking, and four decades in, I was not getting any younger. I needed to get back for good. To my person’s credit, as is her way, she received me whole heartedly, and instead of being woeful over lost time, we have spent the last decade making up for it.

Summer 2025. It is time. My sister-from-another-mister, my kindred spirit, yes, my Soul Sister, will move halfway across the country in a matter of days, taking the fun and games with her. The light on the East Coast will be a bit dimmer, the birds a bit quieter, the days a bit longer, as she closes the door to her classroom for the final time, packs her car, drives 700-plus miles away to start her retired life, her Lake Life, with her husband.

Sure, we have cell phones and Face Time to stay connected, but things will change. There will be a shift, and it will be one more summer loss I adjust to. And while it has been a long goodbye full of more-memory making yet painful in anticipation, I know this farewell won’t be forever but a temporary bump in a decade’s long sisterhood. We are linked for life.

Goodbye, Soul Sister, and safe travels. I miss you already.

I never thought of healing from divorce as going through a wall, but when I sat down to lunch with two friends, declaring I’m over it (as mentioned above), one proclaimed, “You did it! You went through the wall!” Well, alright. I guess I did.

It’s a great visual and sums up how I feel now that I am on the other side of the wall. I’m a new person - well, a different person, but nonetheless, a whole person again. I am a better mother, daughter, sister, friend. Less anxious, less tired, more confident, continuing to move forward in a positive way. I have added new activities and friends to my week, and I continue to participate in the exploits I have always enjoyed. Mixing the old with the new.

Another friend, also divorced, told me it would take three - five years to put divorce behind me (I’m paraphrasing, but you get the gist). That sounded like forever when she first said it; I wanted to be healed and whole NOW, not five years from now! In the end, it only took three years, three months, approximately one week and a few days, but this discernment was helpful, recognizing my resurrection might not happen overnight. I was thankful for this insight because it allowed me to be patient, especially at my weakest, most vulnerable moments.

Interestingly, or oddly, take your pick, it got worse the closer I got to the wall. In year one my focus was “get out and take my sanity with me,” in year two it was “get settled and move on,” and in year three, I was at a loss. I accomplished what I set out to do; I was out, I was settled, I moved on, so now what? Time to get busy and get rid of the unhealthy energy surging through my veins. Best efforts but I was spiraling into a steady decline instead of free-flowing forward.

What happened next? I crashed hard. I was at a low point between major holidays because of events I couldn’t control, and subsequently, I lost control of my emotions. I reached out to my doctor for assistance, balanced my serotonin levels, took deep breaths, exercised in some form daily, and wrote essays in my sleep.

What happened next? I survived. I came through that wall like a mother and never looked back. Don’t care, don’t worry, can’t change the past. Moving forward fast and furiously as I start anew. All it took was three years, three months, approximately one week, and a few days.

Her smile softens again as she looks at the back of the boys’ heads while they play in a plastic green sandbox shaped like a turtle. She likes this vantage point as she can see their small heads nodding while they converse, using their own language, a combined imagination, remarkably agreeable today. She doesn’t want to disrupt their time together, but she aches to be with them, so she takes some markers and paper to the picnic table waiting for them to finish before introducing a quiet activity before bedtime.

The boys continue their game in the sandbox, creating roadways for their trucks, sometimes creating a crash complete with sound to mimic the noise of metal on metal, even though these trucks are plastic, yellow cabin with a red dumpster on the back. Matching, of course, to eliminate arguments.

Finally, they sense her presence. Turning around, they charge the picnic table. Hugs with dirty hands and ruddy cheeks erupt as they vie to get closest to her. The boys settle across from her now where she can see their flushed cheeks and round faces. The older brother draws the accident which occurred in the sandbox while the younger brother draws the turtle-shaped box itself. Contemplative, she doodles flowers and the sun, writing the boys’ names along the edges of the paper.

When the daylight dims, she calls it a day, and the boys reluctantly relent, the little one rubbing his deep brown eyes while the older one helps put the markers back into the plastic bin. He wants one last race to the house, but his little brother doesn’t have the energy to join in. Still, he raises his thin arms over his head in victory when he gets to the door first.

As they make their way inside for the nighttime routine, baths, books, and bedtime, her smile reappears because she knows this is the best gift she can give them - one another.