On the 24th Day of Christmas Erik Bergstrom gave to me… They were walking down their quiet city street, their arms interlaced, two days before Christmas. It had yet to snow. They were both seventy-two years old this year; Hazel a retired teacher, Ernie a part-time woodworker. They’d come through another year and were happy
On the 22nd Day of Christmas Annie Bien gave to me… From Merriam Webster: I. Immaculate: adjective a) having no stain or blemish : pure, b) having or containing no flaw or error c) a: spotlessly clean b: having no colored spots or marks —used especially in botany and zoology # DK: Observational Note: An
On the 20th Day of Christmas Marie Day gave to me… Marnie’s all in white; a celebrity ghost of Christmas past, hammering on my door at two in the morning. ‘Don’t worry, no one’s died. Except mebbe me career.’ She stumbles over the stone step into the house. The whiff of white wine and Black
On the 9th Day of Christmas Lucy Goldring gave to me… On balance, it’s better that he didn’t notice me. Invisibility might just be my new superpower. Being in here – bass a distant drub-drub-drub, fellow ‘freshers’ a drone of bullshit – offers vodka-clear perspective. I will ignore the rat poison pellets squealing annihilation (too
On the 8th Day of Christmas Alexis Wolfe gave to me… The air was thick with cigarette smoke outside my back door. It was the Big Supermarket delivery drivers’ Christmas party. Except, Big Supermarket didn’t give its delivery drivers a Christmas party and the drivers weren’t allowed any time off work during December, so actually
The Pull-over “A Corvette?” Nadine repeated. “You’re kind of old for a mid-life crisis, aren’t you? And besides, don’t they cost $100,000?” “Not a new one,” George replied. “A used one. One of the curvy models. I’ve got my eye on one for $20,000.” “What’s wrong with our Camry?” “Not a thing. I just want
The banner between the trees read: “Welcome Home, Logan!” On the table below the banner there was a spread of yellow cake, hamburger buns, chips, ketchup and mustard, a plate of grilled meats, and fizzy red punch in a plastic bowl. In sweaters and jeans, Logan, Becky, and Sharise assembled their meals. Leaves were falling
This story must be told, that of a young girl, not taken but ripped from her mother’s arms. A mother following instinct to protect her daughter, to find safety, a place without fear of death. This mother, witness to murder, inside a spring day while the birds sang of new hungry babies, opening wide beaks
Pity on passing faces, like I’m dumb for doing what smart guys avoid. Females at first smile on seeing a spiffy young male standing tall alongside the ramp up to a west-bound highway. Short hair parted left and combed flat with white sidewalls. Pale Oxford shirt tucked in, belted dark chinos, thin black necktie, shined
‘Don’t write like a housewife. And read David Sedaris.’ This was the advice my daughter gave me as she thrust a copy of his book, Let’s Discuss Diabetes With Owls into my hands. Three years later, on the night of my 49th birthday, Bec took me to see David Sedaris at Cadogan Hall in London.
