How the Killer Got in Here
Would we let them kill our younger selves?
The Coat of Me
What color is my coat? Green? No. I do not like green.But is it magic? Yes.Wool? No.Waterproof? Yes, when it needs to be.Hurt-proof? Yes, when it can be.(For without water or hurt, we do not grow.)Warm? In winter or when I want it to be.Buttons? Yes. Big FUN buttons.What does it remind me of? My mom.How does it make me feel? Authentic.The best thing about it? It is my only coat! I don’t need twelve. It has an endlessness to it. A timelessness. I wore it young and I wear it old. It is young Kathryn. Old Kathryn. All Kathryns:...
The Early Worm
Our grandchild awaits. We’re waiting too! Oh my. What are the chances that babies even happen??? HAHA. My ears burnas the world turnsto discerna patternthat music earnswhen it learnsof font kernsthat overturnVan Cliburna piano churnthat upturnsa smile downturnedwhen the butter churnburnsto spurnthe early worm.It’s their turnto get the bird.
Temporary
We just dropped off our twenty-year-old son at the airport. He is so, well, twenty. After raising two boys to manhood, I know that Kahlil Gibran was probably right: Our children are only on loan to us. I had heard it, but I didn’t have a clue of what that meant. When they were little, I fooled myself into thinking they were mine. But now I’m not so sure they ever were. Yes, they pretty much did what they were told—most of the time— because they didn’t know any better. However, those times didn’t last. And the boys often made...