Friends and family gathered around me on that cold rainy February night, waiting for the news.
“No brain activity,” the doctor said.
Walking in the house at midnight, I called out your name, by habit.
In the dark silence, your last words echoed through my mind: “I can hear you.”
Susan is a Curriculum Developer at a mortgage company. She is widowed with two grown daughters and two stepsons, and four awesome grandchildren, two boys and two girls.
Tiny settled slowly, until the wind encouraged her. She spiraled skyward, somersaulting, diving, playing hopscotch with the cedars, hovering while drinking in the view.
She finally joined millions of tiny friends, covering the meadow in a shimmering lake of white. Watching the tree, waiting in anticipation for the old lady.
Paul Hock is an author from Fergus, Ontario, Canada. See more at paulhock.com
There’s a cemetery east of town. It’s small, just a fence guarding some grass.
I’m the only one who visits the cemetery and its single grave.
Dad earned his place in Arlington, but chose this simple dirt plot, saying,
“It’s like the ones in distant lands, where my brothers sleep.”
John Fowler served twenty years in the US Air Force before retiring and starting a second career in the IT field. He is also a Lay Pastor serving a small church near his home in Texas. His hobbies include reading, golfing, writing, and now oil painting.
Winter aged me,
took away muscle tone
with each mound of snow
I stared at my flaccid arms and legs.
Surely they belonged to someone else,
my mother perhaps…
when she was ninety.
Then spring arrived
With its noisy insistent presence.
Too much growth –
I’m done with that.
Robin Lubatkin does circle time with the very young and what she calls “songhealing” with the very old.
That first, immaculate, unfurling leaf. It knocked her sideways every year, felled her with its soft, green promise.
So many dead months of waiting. Did the arms of the beech sprawl up in silent prayer? Did they cling to the same frail hope? Maybe… this time… spring would never end.
Tamsin is certainly very glad to have escaped another grey British winter.
For the Babies
Ten of us ate and ate, then ate some more. The bill was more than reasonable, considering the impeccable service, excellence and variety of food. The neat thing about dining at the inn was the nostalgic feeling of being at grandma’s house before the war. Stuffed, content, yawning with happiness.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Editor’s Note: Let’s all hope and pray for peace, not only in our own homes but in those places on the news that can seem so far removed.
In the canoe, he always took the back to steer, so I was in the front. I couldn’t do anything right; he’d shout at me, Paddle harder! On the left! Left! Feather it!
When we switched to individual kayaks, our relationship improved immensely, moving together, each our own way.
Jackie Ascrizzi live in Montville, Maine, where she spends time observing beavers and cooking Indian food.
Death came to call, and I quivered on the threshold, until I realized he wasn’t menacing me, just lost and asking for directions, his hood askew, with Mrs. Death sitting in their van, tapping the wheel.
Relieved, I sent them away down an unpopulated road and eventually out of town.
Robbie Gamble identifies primarily as a poet. When not obsessing about image and line breaks, he works as a nurse practitioner caring for homeless people in Boston, Massachusetts.
been going on and on about itself.
Ahab wants out.
Cracking the door,
he is blasted. Crouching,
ears flattened, he retreats.
Sitting Buddha-like now, licking his wounded pride,
he pauses to bring his puffy tail about, and lay it by his side.
Like a monk adjusting his robe.
Matthew lives in Maine.
As the sun sets, a teenage boy gathers coal from the side of a railway track. He’d climbed onto one of the trucks of a slow-moving freight train and opened its side door, spilling its precious payload.
He might get caught, but he doesn’t care; he will be warm tonight.
Coal theft is not uncommon among the poor areas of Poland’s Upper Silesia region, where Daniel teaches English as a foreign language.