“Can I take a photo of him?” the woman asks.
Wafer thin slices of potato dive from the mandolin, cascading into the hot oil with a raucous sizzle. My father brushes past my left shoulder. I’ve learned not to look, not to ricochet my head around searching for signs of him. He’s not there.
CAUTION: This story contains references to domestic violence and descriptions of childhood emotional abuse.
I stood at the podium looking out at the sea of faces, unfamiliar and familiar, the funeral director’s words still ringing in my ears. It’s okay to be raw and honest. There’s no right way to grieve. They’re just looking for the comfort of a shared experience from you.
If you wanted to set your life on fire, there wasn’t a better combination than Mabel Cunderdin, and Edward Willard’s limitless credit card.
There’s a much misunderstood but oft quoted Hindu/Buddhist tenet that life is suffering.
It stood rustling its tiny red berries and pea-green leaves in the northwestern corner of our yard. The Japanese Pepper was my tree.
CW: discussion of dog death
I’ve had a lot of dogs over the years.
Continue reading “The dog of many names”
Invite your grandson to have lunch with you. Tell him to bring his girlfriend. Your daughter has told you about her, warned you to keep your opinions on her dark skin to yourself because it’s his choice and she’s a lovely girl and he’s happy, Mum, but you’ll be the judge of that. He will suggest going out for lunch, or bringing it with him. Continue reading “How to Make Lunch for Your Grandson’s Girlfriend”
Seven seconds to draw a breath