I’ve always known I’m French: my Dad from bilingual Lewiston; Mom from bilingual Westbrook. My grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles spoke English except when French kept their secrets from us. My great grandfather, Pierre, spoke only Québécois. I once asked my mother why they named me Susan Jeanne. She said, “we wanted a name that… Continue Reading
I’m a chocoholic, like many addicts, quick with denials: I hurt no one. I buy fair-traded, 80% cacao, organic, vegan. I seek charity-loyal companies. Dark, smooth, rich, creamy squares at 6 a.m. nudge me awake. Necessary, right? No harm in a little a pick-me-up after lunch, and a nightcap at dinner. Note the dazzling promos… Continue Reading
I’d rather skip writing about grief. I’d rather write like poet Ross Gay in his, THE BOOK OF DELIGHTS. I smile as I read how he felt “delighted and compelled to both wonder about and share that delight.” What comes as I write is not, as Ross Gay called his essays, “something delightful.” Rather grief… Continue Reading
I dreamt about my mother’s hands last night, her long slim fingers, stunning and smooth in her youth, bony and wrinkled as she aged, black-blue and withered at her death the day after Christmas. In my dream, I saw her rings that my father bought her to honor anniversaries, for Christmas gifts, and as gratitude… Continue Reading
Years ago, young enough to squat without pinching a knee joint, able enough to push a hand mower to clip grass without a hip complaint, flexible enough to kneel, stand, crouch, and repeat without hurting yet another body part, I sat weeding our front sidewalk. A stooped woman I deemed old, whom I now consider… Continue Reading
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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Photoloni