I smell smoke. All the time.
At first, I thought maybe one of the folks who live in the house next door were sneaking outside for an illicit butt, and the smell had wafted over to my house, invading my nostrils.
My friend and I went over to her mom’s place this week to cleanse her apartment.
I don’t mean “clean,” I mean, help her give the old heave-ho to some evil spirits lurking in her bedroom.
I decided to thin out my filing cabinet this weekend and came across my husband’s passport.
It was a wrench, I’m not gonna lie. Continue reading “Passed port”
I was standing in front of the refrigerator holding a jar of salsa that I am sure, had been purchased sometime during the Eisenhower administration.
(Ok, so they didn’t have salsa back then.)
I am well into my second year since my husband’s passing, and alternate between thinking it’s getting better with days of blinding, debilitating despair.
It’s like that famous drawing – you look one way and see a fresh young maiden, tilt your gaze ever so slightly, a crone. Continue reading “Maiden vs Crone”
None of my Easter memories have anything to do with church.
When I was a kid, Easter meant loading up in the station wagon with my folks and a brown paper bag filled with crispy fried chicken and hitting the road.