Torn

Life spills out. A drop here or there at first. Then a slosh more. We stumble. The bucket jostles and a mess is made of what was once most precious. A will yet carries us on, our burden heavier and yet our time evaporating.

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Saturday. I was taking Muriel to London for the weekend. A father daughter trip to the theater. I remembered the little girl who loved time with her daddy.

“How was school yesterday?”

She grunted, kept reading.

Vivid

In the space of a handful of heartbeats, a moment forever vivid and often reconsidered. You asked the unexpected of the unworldly. Your smile sparkled and your laugh ever echoes. The feeling of confusion, so overwhelming, has faded through time, replaced with questions. What answer

Capable

“I have nothing to hide.” I have everything to hide. Scumbag reporters’ questions blur into a peaceful white noise. I take a deep breath and smile.

The perky blonde in the front row waves her arm again. She is exactly my type. I point at her big boobs. “Yes? You in the pink?”

“Are you capable of providing

Burnt

“We’re here.”

The Jamison burned my throat as the car jerked to a stop.

Everyone piled out. I smashed the bottle on the pavement.

Voices were excited. We’d made vows.

The Joy of Giving

Uncle Neal insisted she come to the East Village for a visit. “You have to come, Tina. You just have to.”

Tina held her breath and bugged her eyes out. “I can’t come today. I’m sorry.” She went down her mental checklist. There was so much still to do. And don’t forget

Board Meeting

Once upon a time, I started my own dot-com. I thrived on the eighteen hour days. Living in airports, the unending emails, the pressure. I told myself it was all worth it. Every day, until it became my mantra. Until I became my mantra. Because in the end there was the rush

Superstition

Torsn may not have been a man yet, but he had no use for the old seer’s riddles. What could a cripple know of gods? The ragged cloak smelled of smoke, the breath even ranker. “Torsn of Turl, forsaken not you.”

When they came, it sounded like a rockslide. The sleepy village stood

Street Conversations

“But look at the map.”

“Doris! How have you been?”

“But none of the addresses are even close.”

“I’m doing good.”

“I think we’re

Legacy

Moms are magic. I imagine other moms are like mine, the embodiment of magic.

Sunlight stutters through overhanging trees, leaves rustling in the summer breeze. The warmth nurses my arthritic bones.

My siblings and I not only received our lives, but we were shaped and directed by mom’s beliefs, her choices. Who would I be if not for this magic? Certainly not myself, not a writer.

Children play in the park fountain. Happiness nourishes me from peels of unfettered joy.

A squirrel glides and pauses across the lawn. Her gait is blemished, and I realize she is old, like me.