Archive | July 2015

A Small Corner of Our World


          Each morning as I sip my breakfast tea and work my daily word puzzle, I look out my window and see this tiny corner of our world. A corner, for years now, silent and empty. But a corner that, could it speak, would tell a poignant story. A story of young love that flamed bright and laughed heartily.   That made a cozy home and birthed into that home a beautiful young boy, a beautiful young girl. A story of a young father who proudly built this swing set; grinned sunshine as he pushed his wee ones giggling high into the sky. A story of marriage clouds that blanketed four lives and turned the soul of one of the partners so inside out that leaving life seemed the only option.

          All this was years ago. The swing set stands alone these days, the long-ago wee ones now off to build their adult lives. Lives imprinted with memories of skimming down the slide. With memories of swinging up to the clouds. Memories of curling cozy with a book under the roof atop the slide. Memories of those strong hands that once had held them firm but now are only dust.

          The silence often shouts into the quiet of my morning tea.

          I sip again, and note that just beyond the swing-set and the shed, dogs and their walkers stroll by; cars and school busses drive along the street. All of these so unaware of all the sorrow, all the joy this tiny corner clutches in its now empty hands. So unaware that they have come so close to  hallowed ground.

A Grandma Memory


My little man, frame heaving with his sobs;

tiny woes all tangled in his sweaty hair and

swollen eyes; his sun has shattered into bits;

his world has tumbled upside down. I hold him

tight and whisper love to wash away his grief;

it merely swizzles through his tears.


Helpless as the stars that cannot burn away

earth’s woes, I simply smooth taut ridges of his

back, his shoulders, and his neck, the only

thing I know to do; my fingers slowly find their

way into his anxious heart, begin to knead

away his sorrowed fear.


“Damma”—my garbled name floats to the

surface of his sobs; our fingers intertwine;

together now, like tiny insects building

intricate abodes, we gather all the pieces of his

brokenness and bit by bit, we work to mend that

shattered sun.


A memory from long ago, but

still, from time to time, when my sun

fades or troubles knot my thoughts, that

quiet “damma” nestles in my bones, I

feel our fingers intertwined, stillness wraps

around my shoulders, tiny threads of light

weave through my shadowland.