Fwd:

A growl erupts from the corner. The beast turns vicious fangs to me, moments before he lunges for my throat... to give me a big, sloppy kiss. Stupid dog.

This Sunday 160 is brought to you by the letter E (for Ezmund) and the number 38, Stanford's score as I write this. Oh, and it's dedicated to Monkey Man, who writes stuff. And is watching the Stanford game while the pizza cools. Hi, MM.

Months and months and months

Life is what happens
while you're busy making
other plans
so I'm told.

Did you know
that peanut butter
on a spoon
cures hiccups?

And the sound of
coyotes at night
outside your hotel room window
can cure a major
case of the blues?

Only if
you married a Monkey
and he knows your secrets.

--------
This Friday 55 is for G-Man
who makes me want to write on Friday
and Monkey Man
who made me laugh on Monday
just like most every day.

I want to thank
Kramers, and Old Mills, and ghost stories
wishing for Sasquatch
coyotes outside my door
peaceful quiet
and men who tip
their hats at me
and wave as they pass.

Happy 19th, MM
and many more -
(with coyotes).

She reads aloud.

“North Star,
Star of the sea

I wish for a ship
Named after me

To sail for a day
Alone and free

With someone nice
For company.”

With her little brother giggling,

she launches the paper boats

across the pond,

fire blooming from their center

until they disappear

around the willow branches.

--------------------------

Growing up, there were many oriental traditional that came to be my own. I always give a new bride a bell to hang in her kitchen (so she can ring it when she's lonely and know that her family hears her, still). I always eat the fortune from my cookie so it will come true. And, I used to always launch wish boats on the Willamette River on the eve of Chinese New Year.

The poem that's quoted here is from The Maggie B by Irene Haas. 

I first read this as a small girl, when reading was my escape from a rough and tumble world. I often long for the simplicity of those times, the long hours spent alone with only my thoughts and Moby Dick or Watership Down for company.

This Flash Fiction, as most of the good ones, leans heavily on my own story. G-Man would love it if you'd play along by writing a story in exactly 55 words. The Noir, the merrier...

Continued

Stop the bus, I want to get off.

Fear is the wind that snuffs the candle in the mind. I steal that from Enchanted Oak, who also quotes a philosopher or two. Her words hit home this morning, as I water the plants, walk the dog, go through the mental list of all the things I am uniquely responsible for in the world. All 6,532 of them.

Two jobs to not make a person happy. One of them must go. Or I must go. The two of us can no longer live peacefully under the same roof.

I've been blaming strange things for my unhappiness, of late. Well, being afraid has caused me to miss one too many good things in my life, it's time to beat a hasty retreat from that silliness. Who cares where the unhappiness comes from - it must go. NOW.

Yep. Staring fear straight in the face, today, and telling it to go take a flying leap.

You with me? (Now, where's I put those wings?)

Timeless moments

Have you ever picked a fight?

I know I have, more often than I'd care to admit. Like last night. I'm the queen of fight picking, it seems.

But when a storm is brewing, have you ever stopped to really think about the why? What's underneath your anger and frustration?

For me, it's almost always fear.

I'm angry because I'm afraid, and I don't like to be afraid.

Not "I'm being hunted by a lion and must run or die" afraid, just unsure, uncomfortable, unhappy.

What happens if I accept and embrace fear? Well, we'll find out. Because, at the end of the day, avoiding fear, conflict and conversations gets me exactly nowhere. The same goes for bringing things up when I'm angry. I've got to quit that.

What kind of world would I live in if I could have an open and honest (and difficult) conversation without fear of retribution, without distress - and without raised voices?

Stay tuned...

And counting...

Softly whispered,

“You’re the most handsome man here.”

And he smiles.

Falling asleep, he doesn’t’ even think

about the fact

that his attitude

is only that of someone

admired, adored and slightly stalked.

“I had the biggest crush on you in high school,”

repeated over. AND over.

She feels ill.

All hail high school reunions…

------------------------------------------------

This Friday 55 is semi-factual. Who loves high school reunions?

Not I - and especially not when it turns out to be so - I don't know - ODD.

My ten year was normal - we'd seen each other too recently.

(The first person to pick out a fellow blogger in this photo wins a very cool prize, by the way).

Why does everyone fall back into their old persona?

The jocks hang together, only the popular ones at that table...

The saving grace was being adored - still - by my husband's best buddies from Jr High,
that we see frequently. Thank the goddess...

Otherwise, there would have been blood.

G-Man, you'd bail me out... RIGHT?

(Visit him, leave a trail of breadcrumbs.... and he'll visit you back. Promise.)

For all dads - a Father's Day 160

Fingers grip the wheel.

“Vroom vroom!” fills the air.

She sighs, announcing softly:

“you can’t sit in the driveway forever

no matter how much gas mileage you save.”

------------------------------------------

This Sunday160 (a story told in 160 characters, including spaces) is a tribute to my husband,
who just purchased a new car - a hybrid - and spends WAY too much time worrying about
the low 37.5 miles per gallon he's getting in town. It's rather adorable.

Happy Father's Day to all you Dads out there - especially Monkey Man 

(if he's not too busy making car sounds from the front seat...)

Haunting 55

Too many hours passed

waiting for him to come home

from the treacherous life at sea.

She waited and watched,

pacing effortlessly on the balcony

for hours at a time.

Every ship might hold her love

and yet she feared he’d never return.

Inside the room, a voice.

“Honey – who’s that out on the patio?”

----------------------------------------------------

Join the fun, if you dare. Write a quick dose of fiction in 55 words, no more - no less. 

Let the G-Man know and he'll send lots of living, breathing visitors. 

Snow angels - 160

There’s

a perfect day

I keep in my jacket pocket

Snow and sun

You and me

With that bald eagle.

For the change it wrought

everything

thank you.

Snow angels cure anything.

-----------------------------------------
This Sunday 160 (a story in 160 characters, including spaces) is brought to you by a May afternoon at Oregon's Frog Lake. If you'd like to play, let Monkey Man know (he'll visit you if he's not too busy out making snow angels in the sod).

55 words of warning

Splayed on the floor, he’s not getting up anytime soon.

Wiping his brow, the officer gently asks,

“You seem really upset, Ma’am. 

Can you tell me – what happened here?”

She takes a deep breath, sighs loudly,

 “He used a metal spatula on my new Calphalon pan,”

and starts slowly wiping the blood off her hands…

----------------------------------------

Want to play? Write a fictional story in 55 words exactly. Then, tell G-man.
He'll stalk you if you're good...

Baby did a bad, bad thing

Once upon a time, a very cool customer went to see her favorite singer. She was nonplussed, she was aloof, she was her usual, above-it-all self - until he began to sing her FAVORITE song as he walked merely inches from her, through the audience.



And what does our heroine do? She reaches out to stroke his glittering light blue jacket, thinking "this must have been what it was like to see Elvis..."

Oh, Chris...

(\-/)(:OO:)\/o\||\o\(:)\o\\o\-_(oO(O

 (\-/)        

(:O O:)         

 \   /o\          

  | |\o \            

  (:) \ o\                 

       \o \-_                

       (o O              

       ( O

 ---------------------

This Sunday 160 brought to you by the letter "g" 
(for giraffe) and the number "zero". Although, I 
have to admit, I was tempted to tell this joke about 
a giraffe and a bartender...

If you'd like to play along, 

join my favorite blogger Monkey Man. 

     ."`".              

 .-./ _=_ \.-.             

{  (,(oYo),) }}             

{{ |   "   |} }             

{ { \(---)/  }}             

{{  }'-=-'{ } }             

{ { }._:_.{  }}             

{{  } -:- { } }    

{_{ }`===`{  _}             

(((\)     (/))) 

It's often hard to be so succinct... 
and the rules are you can only use 160 characters, 
including spaces.

----addendum----

I'm glad everyone's enjoying the art - but I feel bad, 

the giraffe is my daughter's animal, the monkey works 

for the man of the house - but I left out my son, 

who is a Leo and a lion through and through.

            ,  ,, ,
      , ,; ; ;;  ; ;  ;
   , ; ';  ;  ;; .-''\ ; ;
, ;  ;`  ; ,; . / /8b \ ; ;
`; ; .;'         ;,\8 |  ;  ;
 ` ;/   / `_      ; ;;    ;  ; ;
    |/.'  /9)    ;  ; `    ;  ; ;
   ,/'          ; ; ;  ;   ; ; ; ;
  /_            ;    ;  `    ;  ;
 `?8P"  .      ;  ; ; ; ;     ;  ;;
 | ;  .:: `     ;; ; ;   `  ;  ;
 `' `--._      ;;  ;;  ; ;   ;   ;
  `-..__..--''   ; ;    ;;   ; ;   ;
              ;    ; ; ;   ;     ;   

Timely 55

I love my daughter.
Love her, love her, love her.
Smart, funny, talented, creative, artistic, sweet, kind.
She would do anything for anyone, except be on time.
What do those words mean, on time?
I’ve lost track after 18 years of late.

And not killing her, I might add, deserving a medal - a shiny one.

-----------------------
Yes, another non-fictional 55, but this one is truly timely. After all, if my ready-to-graduate daughter doesn't learn the benefits of understanding time, graduation is just another step toward living in my attic. Forever. And we SO don't want that to happen. She'll be the "crazy rat lady" and that suits her just fine...

Join G-Man and play along, write a fictional story in 55 words, no more, no less. Remember, fiction is in the eye of the beholder... and she's probably just busy drawing on her arm, anyway, right?

Gratitude is contagious

There's a notebook that sits at the end of my bed. Not really a journal, but it's a book for thoughts and feelings of gratitude. Bad days are not included in it, nor are negative feelings (except that once, and that was forgiven). The two of us share the good things and the kindness we've received, the silly moments we've enjoyed as we document the memories of things for which we are grateful.

You'll find entries like:
-I am infinitely grateful for the coffee you make in the morning
-Gratitude overflows for your kind text messages
-I am grateful for that hug you gave me
-My day was awesome because my son bought me breakfast and I'm so grateful for his kindness
-Sara made me laugh when I was sad and it deserves every ounce of my gratitude

Why do we write about this? Because I really think we forget about the good things in our lives as we let ourselves be overwhelmed by the bad, the sad and the chaotic. I started this year off by giving myself a task - be grateful. Every day. Show your gratitude. Keith joined in immediately and has enjoyed it as much as I do.

Guess what else happened? I'm happier than I've ever been. It took patience and practice and thoughtfulness to pick out the good things in my often topsy-turvy world. But in the past 4 months, I've become a bit of an expert in gratitude, at least in my own. All thoughts entered here must be positive - therefore, the percentage of positive in my life has increased exponentially. It's so much easier to ignore the bad stuff when the good stuff stares you in the face.

Our book is almost full. I like to flip through it and look at the days past, see what made me feel grateful - and see the gratitude that it shows me for who we are, what we have, where we're going. Oh, and it's nice to feel appreciated - there's rarely a day when I'm not on his list.

When was the last time you showed gratitude? Does your partner know how good it feels when you get something you need from them? You don't have to write a book, but you do owe it to yourself to show gratitude. The change it will make is rather amazing.

Today, I'm grateful for a ride to work so I could gather my thoughts, a coffee left by my sink, the sharing of a difficult situation that makes me feel important and included, a compliment that made me feel special.

What are you grateful for today?

The armory - 160

Dreams swirl.

Sleep escapes me

as another comment

meant to sting

digs deeply

into my very soul.

It was meant to drive a wedge

so wedge it is.

Mine has barbs on the end.

----------------
The one-and-only Monkey Man plays this game every Sunday.
Write a story in 160 characters, including spaces. No more, no less.
Play along, if you dare - but be warned... the depth of emotions can be felt
even in such small places.

Stormy 55

Standing taller than those around her,

She sways in the breeze

Waiting for the storm to pass.

“Heavy winds and rain are forecast,”

the weatherman says.

Quietly following the path she has chosen,

She bends, allowing wind to blow through her red hair

and pass her by.

If only people were this easy to ignore.

------------------------

Happy Friday to all - play along with G-Man and try your hand at fiction in exactly 55 words. 

Just remember - fiction is often VERY close to the truth...

Rapture in 160

The small girl went to church to celebrate and repent.
She smiled sweetly, looking up at her Sunday school teacher
and remarking, “Oh, you’re not worthy, either.”

--------------
Yep, we're all still here. But you should go off and think about this - what if the "Rapture" happened and only one old, small man in Peru was worthy? I'm still waiting for the hoards of vermin, stinging mosquito the size of horses and for all the rest of those really cool prophesies to come true...

Play along with my favorite Monkey Man and his Sunday 160 Here. If you ARE still here...

downtown in 55

Portland's living room glows with promise and sunshine this morning -if you ignore shadows in the corners. Struck by the devotion of the ones that watch over their sick, sad masters, the lucky one with full belly and warm bed knows it. Five dogs eat well today to spend another night watching over their precious charges.

---although non-fiction, my hope is to some day see stories such as this as just that - stories. The homeless population, and their fiercely devoted canine protectors, deserve to find a place in our world that's safe.

160 Beginnings

Once upon a time

You’d write me notes

On your cell phone.

Limited to 160 characters

(thanks Verizon)

You found ways

To take creativity

To the next level.

Again.

Thanks.

-----------------------------------

I also have to thank my darling husband and great kids for a day of spoiling, digging in the dirt and pampering - including bacon. I even got to read to them, a rare thing with teenagers.

Happy Mother's Day, all you wonderful women! Even if you've never given birth, you mother and love those around you and should be thanked just the same. You know who you are.

----------------------------------

Monkey Man dreamed of stories in 160 characters, including spaces. If you dare, you can try it yourself. Check him out and let him know. It's harder than you think!

Well? in 55

What would you do

If in a moment

Everything you love, and have, and hold

Will be gone?

If there was a warning - a breath taken -

That told you the secret

Of the end to come...

Would you know what to say

In a word?

How to show - in a breath - what you feel?

Well?

G-Man asks a small favor - write a quick dose of fiction, in 55 words - no more, no less. 

Humor him and write your own, then visit him HERE and tell him all about it. I did.

Blight

Breath held, I look at the plants. The year is 2010, Summer is in full swing - and I know what will appear: wilting flowers, browning for no reason I can discern. BLIGHT. The plants may be full of blossoms that are budding into fruit, but the blooms that wither and die hold my attention. As always.

No amount of spray or water, sun or shade will keep those blooms from shriveling, dying and falling off the plants. I find it so painful, it steals the joy of the ones that will survive.

I know in my heart that some blossoms just won't be saved, just like some people just can't break free of the bad habits and torment they inflict upon themselves. That life is not a neat, 30 minute sound bite that always makes sense - where dad gives good advice and all is well in the world. Why, then, do the broken ones take my attention away from the healthy ones, the ones that should bring me joy?

Many moons ago, I watched as someone close went through a horrible blight. The depth of despair we felt was so disparate that there didn't seem to be any way to re-balance. Our focus blurred. We were pushed apart by necessity - the necessity of focus, feeding kids and walking dogs, cleaning gutters, listening to a machine all night long, clicking every few minutes, telling me the poison was doing its hideously necessary job. I was supposed to be grateful for its power, that poison, but all I wanted to do was throw it out the window.

Slowly, over time, the world rebalanced and we found our axis again - not the "survival is all we have" mode but the "hey this is fun" stuff. Had I focused only on the blight and forgotten the good things that can be, there would have been nothing to remember but the horror of what I lived. If not for a sense of loss, would there be any sense of joy?

The month of May holds new promise and potential for joy. After all, if I focus on the blight, it can take over and be all that I can see. What's the point in that, when I'm missing out on the color in the world? And color there is, all around me.

(Artist credit:My daughter, 18 years old and a phenomenal artist, creates amazing faxu-tattoos on her arm. This lovely creature was created in about 7 minute's time while we sat in a waiting room.)

160 reasons

Dancing alone forever

seemed like a grand idea at the time

but time plays tricks

and being lonely in my shadow is such a waste of time…

Time? Go take a flying leap.

Father of the Year - in 160

Carrying precious cargo
he strained under the load
of his most important
charge.

Face peeking up
at what loomed above
the twin on the right thinking
“Is that for me?”

-----------------------------------------------
Backstory: Sitting and waiting for a table at a bustling brewpub in the Pearl District yesterday, my dinner partner and I were enjoying watching the humanity of a crowd - when a dad did the following. I WISH I'd taken a photo but I was so in awe of his behavior, I didn't act fast enough.

Father walks in with 2 small babies in car seats. Isn't that awesome, he's doing everything he can to protect them... when suddenly I realized the baby on the right was staring up at an empty Growler, hovering just inches above it's head. Um, what?

Worse yet, I could just picture this devoted dad carrying the FULL growler (with 64 ounces of his favorite brew), also perched precariously on one finger above one of his little bundles of joy. Yep, nothing but one finger holding on to that heavy glass jar.

---------------------------------------
Monkey Man writes a story in 160. Can you do it? If you dare, visit him HERE and leave him a trail of crumbs. Oatmeal cookies are purportedly his favorite so crumbs of those ilk will get instant attention.

Fear - in 55

Wandering aimlessly,

The sound of sorrow overcomes her.

She pauses, frozen in place

Waiting for the wailing to stop.

Every fiber of her being

Is tense, on alert.

She hesitates, hoping her fears

Are all in her head.

Dread fills her as she realizes it’s all over…

...she stepped on the stupid dog’s tail – again.

Feeling like joining the party? Visit G-Man, leave him a message (and be NICE, people), and he'll come visit - and send lots of new friends your way.

This is a Friday Flash Fiction 55. Noir is appreciated, adherence to the rules is expected, and having fun is the goal. Go play.



Mist

Things I had forgotten

lay hidden in the mist

Quietude and poison

await a brand new tryst

Afraid I seek

a kind embrace

and slowly slink away,

Amassed our worlds

our troubling

at night and in the day.

I wake to find you wandering

alone and troubled still

a soft goodbye is all you get

I hope it brings a thrill.

Tomorrow

paths will lead us

through fields and forests past

Today I find

an open mind

Embracing what can't last.

Things misunderstood

What is it

that makes one

cry out for attention

when it's right in front of your face?

What makes one

need, crave, aspire

such adoration

and never see

what exists inside four walls?

Nothing.

You

You see

only things you want

and need

and you give

absolutely

nothing in return.

Nothing

unless, of course

it serves you well.

Make haste to find

worshipful sighs

in others

before it withers away

due to boredom

or malaise.

Roll your eyes at me

and say everything

without uttering

a word.

Starvation breeds

contempt

and the painful wounds

you manufacture

in your fantasy

only prove your

depth. Or lack

thereof.

Go forth and build

your life

as a lie

and continue

to be

all the things

before. 

When you failed.

Truth or fiction

your lies

uncovered

you.

Tiptoe

She dances down the halls
giggling as she goes
awakening in all of us
a longing
for what's
safe
familiar
home.

I left my home
when I was young
and spent
so many years
building new ones
out of ashes
of dreams
that turned to flame.

Wishing for a new home,
forever wandering
and waiting
for its appearance
in the headlights,
across the park -
or in the rearview mirror.

I wake
to find it
HERE
as it always was.
Home is where YOU are
home is not the walls
or the view
it's not the couch
or the photos on the wall.

If everything left in
a flood of flame
you
would be
the only
thing
I save.

OK, maybe the dog, too.
He's kinda cute.

In situ - 160

She’s running late

seems scattered

a little too chatty.

Suddenly,

this two hour overview

stretches to 3 hours -
torture
and a writing assignment.
Red Asphalt, anyone?

-----------------------------------------

It was parent's day/orientation at driver's training.

Having spent over 60 hours in the passenger seat with the boy,

I'm pretty confident that he'll do very well.

Until, that is, we sit through 3 VERY long hours of content

and stories plus videos with lots of blood.
And there's more to come - 45 hours worth!

If not for texting back and forth with my partner in boredom,

I might have had to kill someone. With my car.

-----------------------------
Monkey Man
writes themes in 160 characters, including spaces.
It's probably all that texting across the classroom that inspires him.

Visit him and give it a go, if you're brave enough - it's not as easy as it looks!

Inspirational 55

On bended elbow

she waits

for ideas – nee, inspiration

on a day for which

inspiration seems to have

taken a breather.

Alas!

No need to fear,

a 55 with mind-expansion appears

and growth

becomes

a fact.

Unless, of course, your elbow would take on the shape of a giant Aubergine.

Then, all bets are off.

_____________________________________

This Friday 55 is uniquely inspired by G-Man. It's all his fault.

Want to play along? Write a short, fictional story in 55 words. Leave him a trail of breadcrumbs on his posts. He'll come say hi.

It's Dare - 160

Hold your breath.

Now touch your tongue to your nose.

Are your eyes closed?

Closed tight?

Can you do it?

Of course you can

but will you?

Are you brave enough?

Dare ya.

Dance of the 7 veils

If I snap my fingers, 

filled with cymbals

will you follow?

Is there someone out there

that leads you

draws you

tempts you

awake?

Like a silhouette in the snow

a pond in the frost

or the sun peeking out.

Someplace,  home calls you.

Your mother's voice when the lights come on

Your fathers glare when perfect fails

Do-overs that last for hours and hours

and leave you knowing

you'll never be

IT.

But you sustain,

holding tightly to a dream

and a wish

for a better time, a better place

a warmer heart to hold yours.

Better times are coming

and when they go again

you will still be

warm

safe

loved

HERE.

Shaky 55

She held her breath

Wondering if she would survive

Holding on as the world shook

And the plants fell.

The sky sounded like it came down.

Crashing noises

As dust fell from ceiling tiles.

When the world gathered itself

And caught its breath

The only thing she could ask now...

“Was that another big truck?”

 ___________________________________________

I was honored to host exchange students, who my daughter now 

considers her best friends, from Japan. Two of our three girls are safe, 

but one is still missing, one of the over 18,00 missing and presumed dead. 

Japan, our hearts are with you.

Apologies in 160

më vjen keq

прабач це

съжалявам

抱歉

nagdaramdam

n chwith

désolé

scusa

sentimos

извините

regret

Fyrirgefðu

Sentímolo

申し訳ありません

Atvainojiet

Przepraszam

Ne pare rau

----------------------------------

It takes a big person to admit a mistake

and a stupid person a lifetime to apologies for it.

But one must try.

Mi dispiace tanto per quello che ho fatto, Monkey Man.

What sparkles and comes in a little blue box? - an ode to 55

A bit smaller than she would have thought

But not anything to be ashamed of

The flash of brilliance

Wowed everyone nearby -

Except for him.

As she held out her hand

And showed off her prize -

Words escaped him.

He opened his mouth

But closed it instantly.

Stared at

The 

Tiffany's

Mercedes

Keyring.

Mr Know It All

Play along - and visit all the others who have fun on Friday.

Magic Happens (at least in Hollywood)

After discovering a "chick flicks" section at the small coastal store, I had to share my favorite girlie scene from a movie. (By the way, I posted this more than two year ago, in a completely different section of my life - one I like to file under "If you'd like, you can pretend this never happened" - but I love this silly scene).

Stranger Than Fiction: Harold works as a tax collector, Ana as a baker. She is the light and fluffy and kind-hearted soul to his linear and OCD, number crunching and rather cold personality. Earlier, she'd given him a cookie and he refused it because, as a tax collector, he's not allowed to receive gifts. He offends her by paying her for the cookie when she was just trying to be kind.

Harold Crick: [runs to Ana with a box of 10 paper bags in it] I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to give you these.
Ana Pascal: Wait, you can give presents, but not receive them? That sounds awfully inconsistent, Mr. Crick.
Harold: Yes, but...
Ana: Wait, I know, I'll purchase them! Yeah, I'll purchase them.
[reaches into her bag to grab her wallet]
Harold: No, no, no, no.
Ana: [with wallet in hand, stops to actually look at the box] What are they?
Harold: [quietly] Flours.
Ana: What?
Harold: I brought you flours.
Ana: Wait, you carried them all the way here?
Harold: Miss Pascal, I've been odd. I know I've been odd, and I know that there are many forces at work telling me to bring these down here to you, but I brought these for you because... I want you.
Ana: [a bit taken aback, and ready to be really offended] Excuse me?
Harold: I want you.
Ana: You want me?
Harold: In no uncertain terms.
Ana: [realizing that he's really not being a creep and just a guy who's not used to saying what he feels] But isn't there some... I don't know... rule about fraternization...
Harold: Auditor / Auditee protocols, yes, but I don't care.
Ana: Why not?
Harold: Because I want you.
Ana: [contemplates him for a second, and looks back at the box] Can you carry those a little bit further?
Harold: Okay.

Speaking of gifts: coolest gift ever. Flours. Now there's a guy who was paying attention...

Anniversary

Has it really been a year?

Maybe that's why I see you when I tun around, find myself watching the streetcar for your familiar face, wandering the aisles of your favorite haunts, wondering if the days could really turn into months and then a year.

This anniversary is melancholy. I walk the steps you used to take, wishing for your laughter on the phone, your playful (and HORRIBLE) jokes, a seanie-ism to share.

A year ago this week, I watched you say goodbye to so many that love you. You said your last words to me, to Sara, to your boy you adored. I got to hear stories of your adventures, watch your son wake up from a long, deep hibernation, prepare you for what you feared the most - and longed for so deeply.

Time moves, even now, and I hear your footsteps, see you dancing in the hall.


When sunlight streams in, your shadow glides through the warmth. When I see a flash of light, you come and go from the room in an instant - but I know that you were there. Can smell your Chanel #5, if only for a moment.

Happy Anniversary of another day we shared for many, many years. Happy Anniversary to the memories of Sunriver, bad hair days and quilts that turned into forts.

Yes, I miss you - but I know you're close whenever I need you. What mischief are you up to today?

Amore

Time

stands

still.

Wondering

if this

is real

or if it’s just my

imagination.

But I believe

what I know

in my heart as the truth.

I think thou dost

protest a bit too much.

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How many 160s have such a cute subject?

MM seems to think he is immune to the allure of a cute one

But I know better, have seen him fall before.

If not for a kind samaritan, calling animal control

The brute would have had a puppy to play with.

Maybe next time...

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Like a text message,
the Sunday 160 only uses 160 characters (including spaces)
Keep on schedule - post Sunday 

he'll read them all and ignore his kids - and the brute. 

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