My first Friday Fictioneers of the new year…and I’m late. Well, we could say that some things never change, but, well, I’m hoping they will.
I’m back from a wonderful celebration at OBX, where the temperatures were unseasonably warm but delightful.
Here’s to a New Year.
Thank you, Rochelle, as always! You’ve brought something wonderful to my life and writing, and I’m ever so appreciative!
This is partly based on truth…as I guess most stories are.
The Goldbergs are forgetful.
In the fall, when chill crinkles leaves, the missus knocks, requests me to turn on or off a light. She visits when she knows I’m home from work, deeming my mother too elderly.
They erect a vibrant yellow tent. They sing and chant. I hear this as I study and then feel beckoned to watch their shadows swaying. Their tradition, community, makes me ache with longing for something similar.
December. My mother drapes lights over azaleas.
Next door menorahs blaze.
Hope–I feel it–dwells in all of these lights.