I sobbed unrelentingly for three hours the night before friends came to help me move the last items out of our house on the Farm River.
I post today not a post of my own, but a poem and comments that were sent to me by my cousin, Cate Hart Hyatt. Thank you Cate, thank you Maya Angelou, thank you Nina Totenberg, thank you RBG When Great Trees Fallby Maya AngelouWhen great trees fall,rocks on distant hills shudder,lions hunker downin tall... Continue Reading →
The pandemic may have lessened the enjoyment of delegates, reporters, and participants of the Democratic Convention, but for home viewers like me, it created a much more pleasurable, albeit more curated, event.
Have Mask, Will Travel...The store was huge and there were scarcely any cars in the parking lot. It was 7:00 on a Saturday evening and it was the Fourth of July. People in upstate New York had better places to be than Hannaford’s Supermarket, but I wanted coffee when I woke up in the morning.
The long green stems of the chives on our balcony swayed in the breeze and we went out to sit in the waning light of the day. Rosemary had noticed the chives; she is often the one who creates little spaces in our day, openings for us to attend to and appreciate the world.
I had barely taken a breath of appreciation for the declining virus numbers, when the news ramped up about the Second Wave. I looked out my bedroom window, beyond the Bossert Hotel, past Brooklyn Bridge One, to the mingled arms of red and blue cranes at the Red Hook Terminal, which docked the Queen Mary 2 in healthier days.
“What are you doing here?” my rheumatologist stopped short as she came out into the hallway and spotted me. It was early March and I was there for my regular check up. “My patients with RA have all cancelled and you not only have RA, you have this lung disease as well. This virus will not be kind to you. You should not be out.” [Click on title to read the whole post]
After the doctor phoned and told Rosemary that she wouldn't be getting the magical new drug that we had spent the last six weeks hoping for, I kept waiting for the mistake to be discovered and corrected. [Click on title to read the whole post.]
Recently, I was having a lovely lunch with three close friends, outdoors at The New Leaf Café, in Fort Tryon Park, when one of the women announced that she and her husband were planning to sell their place near us and move into a retirement community down south. We all paused in our eating. There was a moment of silence before we congratulated her and began asking questions. We have been together, the four of us, for almost 15 years, meeting at least monthly to discuss a memoir we had read and to share the intimacies of our lives through writing. We are all headed toward 80 and the topic of retirement communities was not a new one. Still, as I looked across the table at my dear friend, I felt tears welling.