“Quarantine and social distancing have brought up a lot: anxieties, memories, and even new observations.
Throughout the week we’ll publish selected works on our website and across our social media channels (an audience of about 25,000).
Share your stories.“ —From Whispers To Roars
I’m honored to share my new piece in ‘From Whispers To Roars,’ a wonderful indie lit mag. Please click here or on image below to read other wonderful works of self-expression during these difficult days.
Since many nursing homes, including the home our beautiful mother is in, are currently closed to visitors, every member of my family sent a pictorial love note.🖌
Our mom only has one functioning arm, and her brilliant mind isn’t what it used to be, so she often has phone difficulties. For a lovely Italian woman who is all about family and friends, images with notes are a warm embrace on a lonely day.👨👨👦👦
We put our pictorial love notes in a binder, and dropped the binder off at her nursing home’s security desk. 🌹
If a loved one, or dear friend, is in a nursing home, why not send a pictorial love note 😊
Hope you, your families, and friends are well❤️
And thank you, to all those working in the medical field, nursing homes, eldercare and assisted living facilities…you are truly appreciated❤️
honored to have my prose poem We’ll Always Have the High Chair
published in Free Lit Magazine
“Free Lit Magazine is free and published bi-monthly with a mandate to be committed
to the accessibility of literature for readers and the enrichment of writing for writers.” – Free Lit Magazine
We’ll Always Have the High Chair
We laughed. Chuckled while swimming in the YMCA pool. In my kitchen or yours. During our walks. Shopping and smiling. Over coffee.
Dad often asked, “How can you always have so much to talk about? What the hell is so funny all the time?”
Constant conversations. Endless phone calls when we lived only a few miles from one another. And now, I can’t remember much. What did we talk about, mom? What was always so funny all the time?
I’d give anything to hear you laugh again.
I remember when Caroline was five months old. You and I decided to try my first born in her new high chair. She was a tiny baby, and had what we called a minnow-head. We placed her in the chair. She tilted sideways and that bitty head slid to the far corner. There she sat grinning with those sweet bow lips. From that moment, whenever either of us said, Remember the high chair, we’d laugh.
This morning, you keep spitting out your meds. Don’t seem to remember why you need to swallow them. With a despondent voice I ask, Remember the high chair?
Your eyes crinkle as drool dribbles down your chin.