“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


the buddha say he might be wrong

and so now i stand in a new place.

i hate it, you understand;
i stand here with no words,
with nothing.
i stand here wanting to do nothing but sit down,
lay down,
dream dreams that come true,
but i would have to wake up to see if they do,
and therein lies the problem.
if the dreams are that good, i want to stay sleeping.
there's a zen saying about that,
about that need to wake up,
but i don't remember it,
it's just sending off sparks in my brain;
i remember the feel of it when first i read it,
remember the truth of it,
but here i am on the other side of that truth,
and i am not at all sure
that just because it's a zen saying it is right.


it does indeed just be that way

it just bees that way sometimes.

2 cell phone images, one you've possibly seen, the other new, or at least new to here. i liked the juxtaposition of the words on my wall with the image of emma's laughing eye against a bluesy painting on the wall outside a downtown club. i haven't been taking any new pictures, except for yesterday's bowl, but i've been playing with older images now that i have all this empty extra time. the ever-wonderful michael purchased a bunch of digital textures for the business, and i've liked messing with them, but really find that i like just using my own stuff for me. kind of a purist in that sense. that may change as i fiddle with stuff, but right now it feels right. it's kind of like shopping for your house. you don't buy everything at one time, you acquire stuff as you go through the years, through your life, and they just work together somehow. that is, if you know what you like, and i do, and i've always found it to be the case that the blanket i bought 20 years ago and forgotten about just happens to be perfect when combined with a new blanket bought last week on sale. same with my images. i know what i like and can get there with my own stuff and be much happier than when using generic stuff. and i am not saying anything bad about generic stuff - i, in, fact, put together a wonderful little image of maggie using a pre-bought texture. i'm just liking this - me + me - at the moment.

a new direction for a bit,
or just now & then,
on my map of the year,
navigating my way beyond maggie's road.
it is rough terrain,
rougher than I'd expected;
colder and the nights are long.

no poetry tonight


Not Yet

I want a bed with taller legs.
I want to see the sunshine skitter across the floor beneath it,
I want to feel the moonlight cradle me as I sleep.

I bought a blue bowl to hold my emptiness.
It is full and I am still empty.
Not yet the poem I long to be.


A Dream, A Donut & Calla-Lu

I don't keep cookies in the house
because I have no willpower & will eat them all.
The Red Shoes is on tv.
I haven't cried all day.
And I dreamed last night.

I will write this down
and then go to the store
for cookies or a cupcake
or a gingerbread pig,
or maybe a donut with sprinkles on top.

I dreamed last night. And I remembered it. It is the first dream since Maggie's death, or at least the first remembrance, and that seems important to me, it seems a breakthrough, a sign that she is okay, that she hears me and knows I need comforted. And so I was comforted with a dream of a pale blue silk dress, silk with the feeling of cotton worn down through the years, its bodice adorned with cupcake sprinkles and glitter, a wonderful swirl of a dress that I pulled from the pages of a magazine - it unfurled like a flower, layer by layer until it lay across my arms, puddled onto the floor at my feet, the perfect size. I was in a new house, a house on stilts, a house that wouldn't flood, a secure feeling; the dream of a flooded house a constant theme in my sleep. Michael was there and Katie and there was a room with two beds. Katie needed a calla-lu and I knew that was a special candle, I could see it in my head, in fact could see it in the air, a ghost of a candle, the pink red of azaleas. There was a table piled with fabric, linens and cottons, all worn and dusty colors, each piece hemmed with ruffles, and a mirror that I stood before, admiring the blue dress against me, then piling it atop all those ruffles. A nonsensical dream, a dream of colors and touch and scents and safety, of flowers outside the windows despite the height of the house, of shadows and sunlight. And now that I have typed calla-lu, it occurs to me that these are our pets. Calla represents Lily the cat, greeting me every morning at work, and Lu is for Lucy Lu, Katie's new puppy.

That stops me.
My fingers have gone as blank as my thoughts.
It is so obvious.
I have laughed at that word all day,
wondered where it came from,
what it meant.

Now that I know, I don't know.
What are those ruffles?
That blue?

I cannot think.

I am off to the store.
I am definitely buying a donut with sprinkles.


A Texas Evening Falling Slowly

A slow falling evening under the dogwood blossoms.

I walk through the softness of the quiet,
blue jay feathers on the grass at my feet,
the memory of raspberry sorbet still on my tongue.

There are yellow and red roses next door
in the garden of the empty House of the Red Door
bunny rabbit lights are still up across the street,
out of focus, shimmery,
hanging quite dejectedly from a Japanese maple;
the blue lights on our side are down,
gone just today.

To everything, turn, turn, turn.

There is once again silence,
just the ticking of the clock,
counting off the moments,
the past the past, the now right here.
A time for every purpose under heaven.

I move through the house;
it will be a night for candles.
perhaps reading


The Soothing of My Soul

i am soothing my soul with cinnamon toast
and carwashes
and louisa may alcott's eight cousins
the sound of the heater fighting this april chill.

at lunch the ever-wonderful michael
told me tales of dragons,
how they'd disappeared during some such year,
and so they were alive during the time of jesus? i asked
yes, he replied,
but they lived in england, in colder northern climes;
that's why they breathed fire.

i am soothed with laughter
and the friends in my life.
I am soothed with the day-to-dayness.
and i am soothed by no dreams when i sleep.
time enough later.
but i miss maggie terribly


Field of Dreams

I am watching Charlie cat across the street - he is a black & white thing of beauty against the green green of AC's grass and he has just disappeared into the monkey grass and I remember thinking, oh, months ago, that when Maggie died, I should think of her going as that, think of it as her just disappearing around the corner, into the monkey grass, think of it as a field of dreams. You know the scene where James Earl Jones is following the ghost team into the corn, and he reaches out and separates the stalks, looks in and then back at Kevin Costner and just laughs the most joyous laugh? Remember that? A great big beautiful grin on his face? I so hope she is in a field of dreams, and no one is bothering her, she hates that; heaven for Maggie would not be a lot of people petting her. I hope she is watching right now, watching how hard I am trying to get on with it, how I am sitting here in the same old place on this old white couch, the computer in my lap, darkness beginning to fall outside though the sky is still light, that almost 8 o'clock light of April, a light she knew well and loved. I hope she is seeing it and I hope she's noticed that the Saturday night rain has washed all the wisteria petals away, gone to wherever they go, and I hope she has noticed it's chilly for April, that I have this small heater on to keep me warm, and I would like for her to just have a moment when she wishes she were here next to me, pushing the computer off my lap so she could snuggle up and go to sleep, but I would only want her to think about that for a moment, to not regret that it is over, but I wouldn't mind maybe just a little mistiness in her eyes when she thinks about how pleasant that would be. No tears, but maybe a sigh - I am selfish enough to want that.

And so I sit here with Maggie looking over my shoulder, writing once again about the small things of my life, everything the same but oh-so-different, the t.v. on, the sound off as usual, the darkness dropping fast outside, the reflection of the lamp in the glass doors; for the first time I notice my reflection, face lit by that lamp and this computer screen, white couch and white drapes behind me. I look very alone, just me and these words and the ever-darkening sky. I hope Maggie notices that I finally noticed myself over there.

I hope she is listening as I read this aloud.
And the pink flowers.
I hope she knows those were for her.



katie and miss kitty last weekend, the first day the puppy showed up to live with them, miss kitty having to rethink her situation, her place in the house. this weekend i know how she feels. miss kitty has adjusted a bit to the change in her life, to this puppy who tumbles her and teases her, she teases back, she doesn't give in, and i hope to learn a lesson from her. i am not teasing back at life yet, still angry and hurt and not used to the emptiness that has taken maggie's place, but i am still moving through the days, surviving the nights - the nights are the worst, they are the hours i spent on the couch keeping an eye and ear on her, and the night without her closes in too quiet, too still, no sleeping cat on the arm of the couch, the purrs when I would reach out to touch her all gone. i admit to you that the first two nights i slept at work, on the loveseat in the front room, lily the cat keeping me company. the third night i managed to stay home, but slept again on this couch, not yet ready to say she is gone, i can go to bed. but yesterday she came home, her ashes in a white box, and she is nestled onto a shelf in a small glass fronted cupboard, facing my bed, and at last the bed called to me, said sleep here, it is all right.

i picked her up by myself - something i wanted to do, just she and i, driving again toward home. I bought pink gerbera daisies as a celebration of her life and into her box i placed the pawprints of last year and some clippings of her fur i'd put into an envelope before letting her go. i will make a bag to place the bag of ashes in - something maggie would like, nothing fancy; i will handstitch it, it will be small. but time still hangs heavy, as they say, and the time spent tending to her is time in which i wander about.

this will ease, i know, and i will stop talking about her, but not always; she is a part of me and i will remember and there will be good days and days that are not so good. i still feel i have nothing to say unless it is about maggie - that will change, i know, but for a bit i may be gone from here, or i may post only pictures, or who knows? maybe tomorrow i will find different words.

i am lonely for her,
and i give lily extra kisses when i arrive at work.


Empty House, Full Heart

I won't say much;
my heart is hurting so badly
it shies away from too many words.

The house is empty.
I've never known such empty.
I take out Maggie's pawprints
I made so long ago
and hold them to my heart
to fill the space around it.

and the love and light from all of you,
the emails
phone calls,
and all the comments here,
hold me in place,
hold me together.

I will have her back Friday,
her sweet ashes in a white box.

I will be back after then.
There are no words now.
Except I love you all.
maggie too


Maggie is gone

and there is not much else to say.
except she did it her way,
no emergency trip to the vet,
no pain.

katie found her this morning under the oak tree,
laying on a patch of wild blooming clover,
surrounded by their purple pink blossoms;
earlier she'd been enjoying the spring sunshine.

goodbye miss mags.
you were the most loved ever.
my heartcat.

oh maggie.
i don't know how to do this.

it could be worse/better

life is pretty good despite the sadness and heartbreak and hurrying and worrying. despite it all. yin & yang. black & white. summer and winter. you stand still right where you are and like ferris bueller said, take some time to look around, and it ain't so bad. you wake at 4 to a sick kitty and find yourself crying at your powerlessness; in a bit she goes outside and when you let her back in she is hungry for the first time in days and not so bad anymore. out and in. worse and better. you dream about nothing and there is a cinnamon raisin bagel for breakfast and your last coke, and your left shoulder aches and the morning begins a little chilly and you are grateful for it all. for life with all its annoyances and pleasures. cold and hot. noisy and quiet. your in-box has messages from istanbul and oregon that make you cry and laugh, and the puppy upstairs is loudly protesting her aloneness, exasperating you but melting your heart. rain and sunshine. lightning and blue skies. you spend a few moments talking to a neighbor before heading out, discussing the death of someone she knows. early and late. here and gone. and you keep breathing. inhale and exhale.
and you stay grateful


Home . . . Where My Music's Playin'

The house next door is for sale, is empty, people walk by and drive by and check it out all the time, but it has a small all-concrete-patio backyard, which to be honest, would be perfectly fine with me, and it stays empty. It was empty when I moved into my place 16 years ago, and it's been through a couple of owners since then - the last owners never lived there, they just remodeled it, got it back to where it should be, and it's pretty wonderful, except for that red front door, since I'm being honest here, that red door just ain't working, no matter how feng-shui-y it is.

Sometimes people who look at the house will ask us questions - there are only 3 houses on the block, 2 on this side, and the once-was-Mary's house across the street, although there are the backs of corner houses which kind of count and add to the coziness. Late yesterday afternoon I sat with Maggie in the driveway, took out a little blue child's chair and a book and sat with her and listened to the birds and watched the wisteria petals fall from the vines, and people bicycled by and people walked by and it was pretty pleasant and pretty pretty out there, and sure enough, a couple with a baby in a stroller checked out that house-for-sale next door and had questions about it, about the neighborhood, and I really liked them, had a good feeling. They liked the wildness of the wisteria and the feel of the brick streets under their feet and I found myself opening up about the neighborhood, telling tales of the owls, of Mary, of the camaraderie that once existed between us, it just poured out of me, and they loved it, they really did, although no doubt they wondered when I was going to just be quiet. They thought it was a good street for artists. Maybe so, I said, but definitely a good street for friends, for pets. They liked that all the neighbors knew each other, something I always find funny because I forget that not all neighborhoods are that way - when I shouted over to Rodney, he of one of the corner houses, to ask a question, they loved that. We talked about the history of flooding in the area, they wanted to know if their son could play in our bigger yard once he was old enough, we discussed the flowers, and they loved the blossoms on the ground, piled in the curbs, asked about crime and safety, even told me how much they'd be willing to spend to move in. When they'd gone on their way, I sat back down in the little blue chair next to Maggie and in a bit Katie came downstairs with her new puppy, a surprise Jack Russell baby for her hubby - he is home now and knows about Lucy (Lucie?), so I can write this - and we stood and talked and Rodney shouted over something every now and then, and the darkness drew near and spring was in the air.

The woman's name was Rhapsody, the woman who looked at the house with her husband, and I kind of want them to move in for that reason alone.


anxiety, stage 1: a big truth disguised as small

things change on a dime, the day is perfect and then there is that moment, that shift, and the day moves somewhere else, the wind isn't so friendly anymore, and i am sitting with anxiety, my lips and tongue gone numb from the shallow breaths i take, and i tell myself to inhale 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . , exhale 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . , and it makes no difference, and i am determined to survive this without my medication but can feel that's a wish full of pretense, and i am angry, angry, angry, so tired of this, so tired of never having a weekend of rest, of never being away from it all, and i play tripeaks on the computer, feeling the numbness move upward, my cheeks and eyes feeling tingly, going dead to the world, and the palms of my hands, i am typing slowly though my mind races. i visit blogs who are cheery and my anger grows, the anxiety sitting on my chest, pushing, pushing, pushing, and i wonder if i will publish this, wonder if you will think this is just written for your sympathy, but it's not, it's not, it's just this stupid anxiety that i live with all the time and lately cannot get way from. there is a note here in front of me, i wrote it the other night, i felt bad then, felt afraid and exhausted and misread something on the computer and i wrote down my misreading, it says crayon trees, and i have kept that silly note below my monitor all week, it seems innocent and childlike, and when i type those words the tears finally come, not a good thing, i never feel better, tears never help, i always feel worse so i fight them, but they always win, they always do, and the numbness is beginning in the soles of my feet, and this is a small episode, oh you should be here for the biggies - no, you shouldn't, they're horrible and then i don't even attempt to get through them without drugs, i thank god for the drugs, i pray for them to work faster than possible. i sit here and sit here and i am aware of the weight of my bracelet, the knot in the sweater tied around my belly, and i am at work, my office doors closed, lily wanting in, then out, and i know exactly how she feels.
there are some who will be happy about this


Moving Beyond the Pretty Picture

chairs everywhere in the living room,
they are the stairs
that allow maggie to move from the couch to the floor
back again,
a little temporary improvisational architecture.

a very imperfect, too soft picture.
exactly what i wanted.
softness is what i feel towards her.

a visit to darlene's this morning affirmed what i've been thinking lately, especially last night when it all made sense and i thought i could put it into words. that we all have cameras that give us beautiful perfect images and we have lenses that give us macro shots that make us all ooohhh & ahhhhh and we have photoshop or other programs that give us ways to beef up color and make the pretty prettier, and now that we all have that and can do that, now what? do we stay there in that place, that age old question of is it a cool picture or just a picture of something cool?, or do we move forward? i've watched my images purposely become more & more imperfect with better lenses, bored with just pictures, wanting my images to be more, wanting them to impart a mood, a feeling, a sense. i don't want bad stuff, and there's a difference (although no doubt someone out there will disagree), but once you know how to take a good picture, do you stay there, or do you move on? and it's important to know how to take that good picture before you begin to break the rules, just as picasso could paint realistically before he moved on (and no, i am not in any way comparing myself to picasso, although one can dream - lol), just as a writer can only successfully break the rules if she knows them in the first place. craft should never be misunderestimated. in the image above, i knew i had it when maggie moved, when the curve of her back suddenly echoed the curve of the chair back - i'd already composed the image and was already shooting, waiting for that moment, and i knew it when it came. it was the last shot i took.

i see the influence of blog images in advertising lately - out of focus shots, that feeling of imperfection. you may argue with me that that's not true, that it's coincidence, but i would say you are wrong. fashion and art always start down here in the ditches, on the street, and work their way up, and i find it exciting to see the changes on the pages of magazines and know that i know people who influenced that, and i truly believe i do. i know i do. i continue to search for the perfect imperfect, to work easily to have the image say what i want it to say, and i am happy with the direction i am headed. small steps, baby steps; the yes i feel when i view a shot that's what i saw in my head, what i felt, keeps me moving forward with perhaps bigger strides. i see so many others doing the same, so many ahead of me, so many different, but everyone finding their place, their voice, their vision. i know so often whose image it is when i first see it, a true sign of settling into who you are, who we are. a sign of settling into our truths.

which is a subject for another day.
a day when i work up the courage.
but it is coming.
you may not like me anymore


Morning Pages w/Flowers

Just a neighborhood shot, I wanted something more cheerful this morning; I was up early early (4:20) to work, belly feeling kind of bad, knowing things needed to be delivered today, wanting to get those done, then back home at 6 and back to bed for sleep, wonderful sleep. Awake again at 9:30, belly better but still tense, which says to me to never eat without joy and gratitude for the food in front of me. Lesson learned. The wind is up outside, the yard is full of birds, and did I mention I saw a bluebird this weekend? The first I've seen since I was a child, they almost disappeared from around here, but have been coming back, and one landed right in front of my open door on Saturday. I hope he comes back but if not, it was still a gift and made me quite happy.

The ticking of the clock is another gift, the sound soft and muted. It is a small white battery operated clock, I have had it for years, analog, I always buy analog, always buy battery operated, always buy small and always buy white; I am not a clock person and think time should just linger in the background, just a subtle reminder. I once knew a woman who owned a digital clock that projected the time in large bright green numbers onto her bedroom ceiling and I was, I admit, quite horrified, could not (and cannot) imagine seeing those horrible numbers staring down at me each time I awakened in the night.

The overcast day awaits, this barely-there clock ticking the minutes away. The curbs are filled with yellow pollen and wisteria blossoms, that wisteria hanging heavy in the humidity, and the azaleas are blooming at last. The yellow climbing roses across the street have climbed into a tree and are making their way quickly up its branches; no one has stopped them and I assume this means we will have a rose tree next spring.

And there are blue bees in Katie's house.
Very bright.
Very blue.
The neighborhood enchantment.
i'll be back


In Which I Whine & Complain

It's been one of those days following one of those nights, you know the kind, the kind where everything just feels annoying, your skin too thin. It has nothing to do with anything, not really, just the night before. A night not too bad except I made it that way.

A phone call yesterday, late afternoon, an ambulance called for my mother, I second guessing last Thursday night when she'd told me of fatigue and shortness of breath, now worried it was another heart attack, thankful my brother was with her. I finished a few things at work, counted my breaths, held my panic at bay with distraction and drugs. A half hour for me, I'm ashamed to admit, but a half hour well spent, a half hour needed, time to move with my anxiety, sitting with it not an option, sitting with it an invitation to come out, come out, wherever it was. Time to allow my brother to take over the role I always play, the responsible one, the indispensable one, time for a curtain call, a last bow, an adios, see you later, time to move away from being the-one-they-always-call. The right move, he was fine, she was fine, a case of vertigo, an inner ear infection, she was home by nine.

I was home before then, home to Maggie, then asleep on the couch, anxiety gone, Ativan giving me rest, but today the effects lingered. The idea of Facebook seemed stupid, people's thoughts ridiculous; I questioned why I even bothered checking, everyone so cheery, just an act I told myself. The news nothing but iPads and Tiger Woods and Dancing With the Stars and Stella McCartney $600 vegan shoes styled after Birkenstocks and just ridiculousness, and I felt righteous about my bad mood because truly, who could disagree that iPads are unnecessary and wrong in an economy where people cannot afford health insurance, because only the well-to-do will be able to afford them, and where is the fairness in that? I was quite snide, I sighed a great deal, quite loudly, muttered sarcastic remarks to the television, to myself, to the internet, to Maggie, read blogs I knew would irritate me, sent not-nice thoughts to a blogger who bragged about leaving anonymous comments on others' blogs, a teaching moment, she indicated to her readers - a cowardly moment, I thought to myself. At lunch, no food would do, a common problem, my bad lunch-karma growing ever bigger daily, my search for somewhere quiet useless; today I wanted nothing, just a Coke I told the ever-wonderful and increasingly patient Michael, please don't make me order anything I said as he scoured the menu for something I might like - look, pasta salad, he said, no, I replied, it's all creamy, I don't do creamy, you know that, and the hamburger is 1/2 pound, I can't eat that, and they probably won't let me order the child's burger, but he asked and they would - mustard, no onions, I told the waitress. When my order showed up, delivered not by the waitress, just a dry bun with meat, I shoved it away, refusing even a bite, ordering Michael to not leave a tip, because he always leaves a tip, no matter how bad the service has been, but he flagged down the waitress, she brought mustard, lettuce, and tomatoes, and I made the burger, eating it with no joy, thinking a meal should never be eaten this way. On the way home he bought me a Reese's dark chocolate peanut butter cup. It was fabulous, and I could've eaten 3 or 4 more.

All better for less than a buck and no tip.
thank you baby


A Weekend of Trees

It was a weekend of thinking and talking about trees & flowers & vines & growing things. Whitebud, hydrangea tree, weeping redbud, white wisteria, snow in summer, bridal wreath, edgy hearts, butterfly maple. The visit to a new nursery was a prayer answered in blossoms. There was the pulling up of the old - goodbye cast iron plants and oak seedlings - and the beginning of the new. Easter weekend the perfect time . One hole dug, one new burst of white in the dark corner of the yard, more to come. Hands in the dirt, roots at last gone, the sheer number of shovels and spades and clippers needed quite amazing. The area under the stairs is now free and clear, empty of everything except ideas, of which there are so many it is impossible to decide. Saturday evening the sky slowly went soft pink as we sat on the rock wall and relaxed from the day's work; she talked about those ideas and I listened and answered and usually agreed and Maggie sat between us and Miss Kitty laid in the yard, and the sky turned ever pinker, the air bursting with the scent of wisteria. Wisteria was/is everywhere, climbing phone poles and weaving amongst tree limbs. On the street a car stopped and what's that purple? a woman called; earlier 2 men walking by called the wisteria the biggest lilac tree they'd ever seen. We've laughed for two days.

The tree above is an old redbud.
The older they get, the more beautiful.
I like that.
a lot


Because You Can Never Have Too Many White Flowers

The view from Katie's stairs,
overlooking the creek & sidewalk.

Spring has sprung and flowers have opened their sleepy eyes.
We are surrounded.

There is a house around the corner festooned
with yellow roses
dripping from the roof of the porch,
wisteria is climbing among tree limbs
around telephone poles,
the dogwoods stand in white & pink loveliness,
redbuds are everywhere,
purply punctuations of color.
There are tulips of yellow, orange, white and pink,
the azaleas are blooming at last
the catawba tree is leafing.

The lovely lovely Katie & I are off today
to shop for more flowers ~
white ones ~
for our shady yard,
to oooooh & ahhhhhh at all we see,
to feel the possibilities at our fingertips.
It is without a doubt spring.

Our cats are in the yard,
claiming spots of sunshine,
there is an Easter egg hunt about to begin
across the street.
A mockingbird is on the wall above the creek.
He is singing spring.

We are surrounded.
maggie has gained weight - happiness everywhere


Somerset Life

so happy
so pleased
so excited

it's heeeeeeeere!!
i finally got my hands on it yesterday -
you don't want to hear my tearful
lost-in-the-mail sob stories;
i was quite pathetic.

it's the spring issue of somerset life,
and the first of 3 articles
i'm writing
as the Authentic Living guest columnist.
all are about a sense of place,
and this one, as you can see,
is about my home,
mi casa imperfecta.
it is muy imperfecta this evening.

this issue & idea began with jenny doh
before she moved on to CRESCENDOh.
It was then picked up
beautifully carried the rest of the way
by stampington's new editor-in-chief,
both incredible women,
both believing in me
& putting up with my emails & questions,
and i cannot thank either of them enough.
in addition, i want to thank all of y'all ~
you also believe in me.

the magazine is full of incredible women,
(i am honored to be featured with them),
gorgeous how-tos,
3 blogs with a view,
eye candy just perfect your easter basket!

can you feel me dancing a happy dance here?
cause I am.
yes i am

Almost Easter

an easter tree in its early stages, yesterday morning, not mine, a neighbor's, this morning laden with bunny lights and baubles and rain in the background, gray skies overhead, and really i like it better with just these few hints of color, it feels lighter.

i am not the easter bunny this year - the first time in 1o years - my niece is 13, mary is gone, my mother doesn't care (although she will get an easter basket, there's a dark chocolate bunny with her name on it waiting in my kitchen), and my friends are understanding, but i feel sad for this year, easter my very favorite holiday, but it is just too overwhelming. i saw the tree above yesterday morning & wished i'd decorated the emma tree for the occasion, and even wished i'd tied ribbons in trees in the yard, long ribbons to fly in the spring wind, but too late, really, really; i will keep the idea for later. this morning the wisteria have blossomed - they are everywhere, dogwood trees also, pink & white against the redbud trees, and a peek of azaleas at last, just barely, but at last, and the white flowers whose name i know not, the ones around the corner, are beginning to rouse their sleepy selves. it is beginning to look like home out there.
a short post - more later