Memoirous

It is early days—of what? We don’t know. My soul senses some impending doom. It hovers above the migraine and my twitching eye. I have no words, it seems, as I continue to write, type, fill up the page. First there was the build up to Halloween, trick or treat night, then baby’s birthday—now 1 year old—then my birthday, 66 (I’ll be 70 the next presidential election). And the aftermath of this election. The trees are mostly bare. First there were the colors, latent and sparing this year, then the latter rain (after a dry September and October), then the wind, which brought down the last of the leaves. After the hype, the string of busyness, the frenetic running here to there—is over; we tuck into shorter days, longer nights, and learn to love . . . these November days.   Fall, leaves, fall Emily Brontë   Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wre

It is strange this time around. My circumstances have changed. I live in a tiny house in a different state. A state of being and the state of Michigan. There’s no going back, but yet history seems to circle, around and around, and I shake my head at the irony and wonder: Will things ever change. Back to the darkness. It comes early—especially these last couple of days with low clouds and dreary skies.   When I leave work, I walk home in beneath street lights and the occasional light from someone’s window, past the little playground, the spooky abandoned house, and the weird triangle bordered by towering pines. There is a stretch with no lights at all—yet home is not so far. Tonight I’ll remember to put my headlamp into my bag. And, when I get home to my tiny house, I’ll switch on the overhead and flip a button on the kettle and light a candle in my window and sit in a warmish glow of my own making, and welcome in my November guest. My November Guest Robert Frost   My sorr

All my energy spent. The build up, the roar, the wind passes over. I remember how miserable I felt eight years ago, on the eve of a new presidency—and, now, new trepidation. The feeling of not being safe. The nerves leading to my brain, neck, shoulders overloaded and prickly—the kind of thing an animal feels when hunted. Flight or fight. But, it’s not 2016. In 2024 I live in a tiny house next to my daughter, next to the garden under a bed of dry leaves, next to the garage that holds my bike and the bike with the kid trailer that I pull out to ride my grandson around, where, also he leans his balance bike against the plywood wall. He brings me a book. Across the deck, to my front door and knocks and hollers, “Hey, Grandma!” I open up and he climbs into my lap and we study the pages of a toddler graphic novel about an adventurous frog on a bike that winds his way through a dark woods and meets a dragon—but also males friends and learns he can be very brave, if only he continues to