It’s evening. The end of an early summer day. My sister and I are doing dishes. She washes; I dry.
Without a mother at home, we share all the chores. She cooks; I set the table. She vacuums; I dust. She cleans bathrooms; I take out the trash. She mows; I weed.
Sharry’s 16 and I’m 9. Whatever we do, we argue, fuss, tease, aggravate, and annoy. It’s what we do best.
But, not that night. It was the last day of school. For us, summer officially began a few hours earlier. The radio is on and we’re listening to:
It became my refuge when sadness was a dress I wore. Different shelter for me than most. A feminist bookstore where gay, bi, trans, and multi-colored people were welcomed and adored. Wasn’t in business to be a business. But to be a place for those who were out-of-place everywhere else.
I volunteered. Sold books. Shelved books. Ordered books. Helped with events. Thursday night poetry jam. Always a non-participant until called out.
I used to write poetry. When I was young. Long ago. Write about that, she said, and I did.
The crowd not a crowd but a lively group. As…
Some days need more than one photo. Sunday was one of those days. I was perfectly happy with my trumpet vine picture when I spotted an orange-yellow sunset that took my breath away.
Some days are bountiful, others are sparse.
made morning debut
one thousand miles away
can’t hold her snugly to me
can’t smell her fresh baby bouquet
recordings and photos on cell phones
can’t take the place of grandmotherly arms
(I was present for the birth of my first two grandchildren. Now, my daughter and her family live far away. Due to health issues and Covid concerns, I can’t travel. I missed this girl’s birth. Truth is, due to Covid restrictions, I wouldn’t have been allowed to be present. Still, I feel a great sense of loss. When I will be able…
You were born on a magical day or so your brother says. Consecutive numbers divisible by seven. Will you be a math nerd like him or a music and art nerd like your sister? Or, will you find your own way, your own idiosyncrasies because copying is crass and unoriginal and you’ll never be those?
Will you be shorter than the others, more like your father whose stature is wanting. What he lacks in height, he makes up in brains. Will that be you?
Will you love to dance like your mother? Will she dance anymore after three? Perhaps, you’ll…
It’s been raining for weeks, almost daily, sometimes heavily. Then, Tropical Storm Elsa came to visit. Saying we are wet is an understatement.
Sunday brought on-and-off showers like the silvery one above at the office where I was working. I was hoping the rain would continue after dark to discourage hoodlums with fireworks. I despise the 4th of July. I dislike the uber-patriotism and the lousy holiday food, exceptions being ice cream and watermelon, and, most of all, I hate fireworks. The diabolical noise that terrifies domestic and wild animals. The air pollution — did you know that firework smoke/fumes…
Broken like my heart
the tree survives the tempest
we’ll both mend with time
© Dennett 2021
You’re all invited to participate in this new haiku/tanka/monoku prompt of Broken.
My area of Florida recently experienced a hurricane/tropical storm that left my black cherry tree broken. Other than some minor flooding in my neighborhood, we fared well. I can’t complain. My tree will mend. We are safe and well.
Haven’t we all experienced something broken? Perhaps, a heart, a relationship, a dream? What broke in your life?
Tracy Aston and I look forward to reading your responses.
I was always a writer but lived in a bookkeeper’s body before I found Medium and broke free — well, almost. Working to work less and write more.