Orphan
My parents both died on October 18, though eight years apart. Mother was buried in Raleigh, where I spent most of my young life. Daddy, though, had lived with me in Tennessee for his last two years, so I shipped his body to North Carolina to be buried next to his beloved. I was busy when I got to Raleigh, meeting with folks at the funeral home and at the cemetery to make final arrangements. A woman at the cemetery office said, “So, we’re burying your mother.” “No,” I said. “You already have my mother. My father is joining her.” I had already discussed our situation with these people over the phone and was surprised by the error. “Oh,” she said with great sympathy. “You’re an orphan!” What? I...
Wistful
The colors in the sky amaze me as daytime fades to the west. Shades of pink and gray are a beautiful contrast to the slowly darkening blue. Streaks of sunlight reach through holes in the clouds, looking like spotlights. What hidden wonders are they trying to uncover before the sun slips below the horizon? Everything I see is a wonder and I’m taking it all in during my evening walk. Not only the colors of the sky, but also the raucous mockingbird warning me away from her nest, the grass, flowers, and trees of my neighborhood, and friends in homes I pass. The sky is definitely the center of my attention, though; it makes me wistful. The thought of being in it, floating among the clouds, that heavenly place of beauty and peace, is appealing. An...
Buick
Buick is trying to change its image, based on recent commercials. No matter how much the styling is improved, though, a Buick will always be an old person’s car to me. After all, it’s what my dad drove in his eighties. When he died, I sold the car. Wasn’t old enough to drive it myself. The car looked—and smelled—like it it should be driven by a person with silver hair. I decided I would never, ever drive a Buick. Didn’t plan to get that old. But now, because I’m about to turn sixty, my husband says I’m, “Buick-worthy.” He shouldn’t be too surprised one day when he gets run over. By a little gray-haired lady…driving a Buick.
Different
When I returned home from a week away, I didn’t expect much to be different. Same husband, same dog, same cat, same house. I knew George would be wearing a different colored shirt and there would be a full basket of dirty clothes in our closet. Maybe a few more spatters on the bathroom mirror. But not much else. Yet, something was very different. I noticed it from the minute I saw George at the airport. He looked…well…older. How is that possible in six days? I didn’t plan to mention my observation to him. Most people don’t want to be reminded they’re aging. But I found myself staring at him for several days, wondering how on earth his mustache had turned completely white in only one week’s time. I finally could hold it in no...
Boobs
I was born with a small frame, which explains my childhood nickname, Small Fry. I stayed small as I grew—or, I should say, didn’t grow. I was a pretty skeletal-looking kid since I wouldn’t eat. Playground dirt and M&Ms, yes; real food, no. Mother referred to me as a string bean, though she could never convince me to eat one. Everyone was surprised, of course, when, in my early teens, a couple of melons started growing on my chest. They grew to be larger than those of my mother and older sister combined. Mother used to say she had pebbles and Debbie had stones, but Karen had boulders. Ever hear of an over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder? That phrase got old—as did being stuck with something that, I was soon to learn, everyone else thinks they want. PE...
Squat-n-Sprayer
I’ve passed through some airports lately where I’ve encountered a serious problem in women’s restrooms: the squat-n-sprayer. Translation: the woman who squats, hovering inches above the toilet seat without actually touching it, to pee. That’s right, men. There are women who actually do this. Makes you glad you get to stand, doesn’t it? I assume the reason for the squat is to avoid touching the seat with one’s bum. My solution for germ protection is to place toilet paper on the seat or to use the seat covers that are often available. However, if I enter a stall after a squatter, not even the careful placing of paper is going to keep my butt clean. The pee that the squatter sprayed all over the seat will soak through and get on...
Stillness
Holding my two-month-old grandson. He stares into my eyes, a sweet smile on his face. Time stands still.
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