Dad always called my daughter, Natalie, an “old soul.” Maybe because she’d listen to his old Julie London and Frank Sinatra records and knew those lyrics better than most of the contemporary music or because she read the poetry he liked, could recite Donald Hall and Pablo Neruda (in Spanish), and even wrote her own poetry that was spellbinding in its ability to discern truth and display a keen knowledge of nature. Continue reading
Thank you, Rochelle, for hosting Friday Fictioneers.
I’d Sacrifice Anything Come What Might
The hotel on the canal is the ugliest establishment I’ve ever seen, but when we enter the dilapidated lobby, a Guatemalan woman is singing Sinatra’s “Oh, Look at Me Now.” I squeeze John’s hand. Serendipity. He smirks. Continue reading
The words for Stream of Consciousness Saturday are: In other words.
In Other Words, I Love You
In other words, take my hand…
Are we sculpted by our choices?
This boy. I took his hand when I was fourteen, we made love when we were sixteen, he left me when we were nineteen for glittering lights and fame although he loved me. Continue reading
Ah, the best laid plans, as they say. I thought I would put up the last installment tomorrow, but it started writing itself and I think it intends to be longer. 🤨 (What?!) So, this installment makes up for missing one last night and I will try to get another one written for later this evening, but can make no promises. I, as always, appreciate your reading!