Becoming Brynna

We pull into the parking lot of the Old Saybrook train station. "Oh no!" I moan, looking at the full lot. "We'll never find a parking spot." Rosemary reminds me that when we first got together, I used to visualize parking spaces for her. She is right. Why have I become so pessimistic in my old age? I try my old visualization skills. It works! As we round the last corner, a parking space appears. ... [Click on TItle to read more]

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Finding What’s Lost

I was not young when I lost my mother in the mall; I was probably in my mid 30s. We had walked into the huge department store together, side by side. Once inside, I somehow ended up a few feet behind her, looking at her back as she walked along the front of the store, past the wide-open area between the cashiers and the end of the aisles, and disappeared before my eyes. [Click on title to read]

Homecoming Eyes

That perspective I encounter when I re-enter a place that I have left, and find a sense of solace, the warmth of home and the gladness of return. [Click on Title to Read]

A House for an Introvert

Buying this new condo was a way of acknowledging that Rosemary was not returning. It was not a place that she would have chosen. It didn’t have views. It was at the end of the complex, down a rabbit’s warren of streets, at the end of a cul-de-sac. Except for one window in the den... Continue Reading →

Learning to Live Alone

It occurred to me that all stories have unhappy endings. If you read on in any story, past the written word, there is inevitable loss in the end. No good time endures; no one lives forever.

The Bird Chair

Rosemary climbed the stairs to the furniture section faster than I could, and when I arrived at the top she was sitting on an L-shaped sofa that was the color of amber, lighter than her own dark brown eyes which smiled at me as she bounced gently on the soft cushions. She patted the seat beside her in invitation.

The Journey Home*

Rosemary's ashes have found their way to the ocean, in Hawaii, where she lived when she was younger, before she found her way to me.

Widowhood

Last week, I zoomed with my grandson on his birthday, and I asked him how he felt about being 20. “Nanna,” he replied, “I don’t know if I’m ready to take on all the aspects of being an adult—things like paying taxes and all that.” He swooped his hand through the abundant locks of hair that fell over his forehead, as if to rid himself of such thoughts.

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