The Mulberry Tree II

 The Mulberry Tree

Other kids had tall sentinel oaks dropping helicopters that danced and spun in the wind, or majestic maples throwing acorns to the squirrels. They stood tall on broad thick trunks and dwarfed the houses in their shade. No grass could grow beneath them for they blocked all the sun. Nor could we ever dream of climbing the giants for the lowest branch was miles above our heads. To us, their sole purpose was to serve as home base. It was a place where a Seeker could lean their forehead. With eyes closed and a limited view if they tried to peek due to the sheer girth of the trees, they would chant: 

“Last night, 

Night before, 

24 robbers at my door

I got up,

Let them in,

Hit ‘em in the head

With a rolling pin. 

One, two, three,… ” 

… while everyone else sprinted to find the perfect hiding place.

However, the tree in our backyard was special. It was not a tool to be used in play. It took care of us. We were sent out in the morning and not allowed back in the house until dinner time. There was no snacking; it could ruin your appetite. Some got lunch; most – did not. So, it became our tree of life. It was a beautiful –  squat, short and wide with limbs and leaves that branched out into a huge Angela Davis afro. It was decorated with delicious purple, red and black mulberries that were covered in tiny squishy cracks and crevices waiting for us to eat. At its base was a trunk with the most perfectly gnarly twists and turns that were stairsteps to the fruit ladened branches above. All the neighborhood kids would converge on our treasure in the afternoons and climb as high as we could reach, straddle a sturdy branch, and pluck the juicy berries that stained our hands permanently purple and popped them in our mouths. We stuffed ourselves until we could not make room for one more single berry.  Then, we’d carefully climb back down and run off to play – pausing only to wipe spider webs from the rusty water spigot beside the house before taking a cool drink.  

One day, my daddy, tethered to his oxygen tank, leaned out the window and called down to me to get a bowl, and fill it up with mulberries for him, which I happily did. After quickly scrambling up and gathering as many as the bowl could hold without losing my balance, I ran back into the house and handed it to him.

He said, “No, go into the kitchen and fill the bowl with water. Then pour salt into it, and let it sit for an hour.”

Salt? I was grossed out, but I did what I was told. Why in the world he wanted salt on his berries was beyond my comprehension. After an hour, he called me back in and told me to go get the bowl. He told me to pour off the water, then rinse them. 

When I went to grab the bowl, I froze. 

There, floating on top of the water, were thousands of tiny little black bugs. 

I was beyond speechless.

It was absolutely disgusting.

I miss those mulberries. 

They really were so sweet and delicious. But, needless to say, that was absolutely the last time I ever put another mulberry in my mouth.

** This story was inspired by a prompt from EthicalELA.com I wrote it as a poem for them yesterday and prose today.

My Mulberry Tree

My Mulberry Tree

Behind our house

Was the most beautiful tree. 

It had an Afro

That spread wide

Decorated with 

Purple red black 

Mulberries

Covered in tiny crack and crevices.

Its trunk 

Short, squat and gnarly

Steps for us 

to climb

Up

Into the fruit-ladened

Branches.

We straddled

Them as we plucked

And popped berries

Into our mouths

With our forever purple

Stained hands.

My daddy,

Tethered 

to his oxygen tank,

Called down one day.

“Get a bowl, 

Fill it

With berries.”

I did.

“Now, cover it 

with water,

Pour in 

Salt.

Let it sit

For an hour.”

In one hour

I grabbed 

the bowl.

And Froze.

Tiny Black 

Bugs

Floated

Swam

Covered

The top of the 

Water

That covered

The mulberries.

Many 

Many

Bugs.

I miss mulberries.

I never ate 

another one.

Spring Fever

It is truly that time of year. The restlessness has set in and the lack of focus is impacting work. Everyone is suddenly tardy as if there is no concern for consequences. Reports are turned in late – if at all. Patience and respect for others is all but gone and there is the occasional shouting or bitter bite-back talk and sass in the hall. Admin is rarely available to quell any issues, and when they are, even they find a little pushback. Spring fever and the nearness to the end has truly affected everyone. Everyone is ready for summer … and so are the students.

The Reluctant Student

 She is a force to be reckoned with.  She transferred into my class two months after the start of the year , but had no fear. She has a quick tongue and wants nothing more than to let it be known that she is in the room. Unlike the other girls who wear cropped tops or tees that are twisted into a knot in the back to show their waists or shirts that cut wide at the neck to bare their shoulders, she wears long skirts to her ankles and hoodies that hide everything else.  A clear sign that some type of ultra strict religion is involved. I noticed her body turned slightly away from my book display at Halloween where I placed books about the Day of the Dead and Day of the Dead Barbie dolls from my exclusive Barbie doll collection. I removed them and then went further to remove my Harry Potter Collection. She never said they bothered her, but when I pointed out that I sensed her discomfort and had moved them, she grabbed me and gave me the biggest hug.  

My student does not get get grades. Other teachers thought she was a struggling student. I sensed otherwise. She doesn't like to do the work, so she doesn't. It has become a battle of wills. When asked why she doesn't, she says she has to take care of  her four siblings until her mother gets home. When I threatened to email parents of those who had not done their work, she goaded me." Go ahead, she won't answer. She never reads it anyway." She was right. 

I tell her I don't care, I am going to stay on her and not let her fail, and she smiles. But she still did not write the essay.

Every question is answered with negativity. When I ask how was your weekend, or day, or evening, she always says, "Terrible." When I create a silly morning question of the day about which is better, Adidas or Nike, she quips, "Neither, they are an overpriced waste of money."  No matter the discussion, she shouts out the loudest most pessimistic phrase she can muster.

For spring break she complained because her family was going to Peru and that it was going to be horrible while I tried to engage her in conversations about seeing her grandmother to no avail.  

Upon their return from spring break, I circulated around the room to ask my other students how they spent their weekend. She actually said the first positive thing ever. She said it was better than she expected. And when I finally had spoken to every child and returned to my desk, I couldn't believe what I found. I looked up and across the room at her and saw her looking at me side-eyed with a sly little smile on her face.  There in the center, sat the most beautiful hand painted mug from Peru. 

Dawn's Star

As she quietly rose

in the dark,

She reached out 

and turned on 

a small light.

Muted purples and pinks

snaked across the floor

Beneath a wall of

Black blue 

Expanse filled.

A curtain of smokey grey shadows 

Gently took her hand,

helped her rise up,

and hid her

blushed orange body

As she dressed.

Finally,

She took the stage

In her most brilliant yellow,

a vibrance

man could not look upon,

And was a star.

Ocean's Lullaby

As I sit here in my favorite Caribbean getaway, I am drawn to write about the 'sound of the water that softly calls out to me.

Ocean's lullaby

sings us quietly to sleep

music for the soul

o

I Am Back!

Living with two persnickety, attention-seeking discs (C5, C6 and L5,S1) requires careful and thoughtful movements. They will go all out to steal the attention of any extracurricular events going on in your life. You can be preparing to leave for your 10 day dream vacation and dragging your super-stuffed, supersized suitcase out to the car when one or both of them will jump up and down screaming we want to go. Your knees will buckle under the weight of them, your body will do a momentary spasmic dance, and your vocal chords will chime in with a soprano-like call and response. 

You call out, "Ah!"

Your spouse responds, "Are you okay?"  

Because you are not canceling your vacation, you breathlessly lie, "Yes, I'm fine," and resign yourself to bringing the duo along. 

Then, you engage the emergency tactical disc car entry protocol: Sitting Help Intervention Technique (S.H.I.T). You turn your body sideways, back up to the open car door, carefully sit, and gently lift one leg, then the other before slowly turning in the seat to face forward and begin to dig in your purse for a naproxen.  

Not Too Long

 I'm writing  to acknowledge the receipt of a comment that renewed my faith in writing. I write long. Some would say too long. Okay that would be my husband. But I do feel sometimes that we are being forced to write shorter and shorter pieces, while mine seem to be getting longer and longer. As I wrapped up my short attempt yesterday, I realized it had become my longest one yet, and I had resigned myself to knowing that no one would take the time to read it. As it turned out, not only was it read, that person left very kind remarks and it was clear that they did not merely scan it, she had read the entire entry, She renewed my faith in readers. I had been focusing on how to cut it back without losing the integrity of my writing, and now I know that I do not have to. 

The Seasoned Educator

The older teacher arrives at school, a tad bit late, but before the bell. She moves slower these days and either cannot move fast enough to get out of the house on time, keeps going back for things she has forgotten like her i.d. or car keys, or simply doesn't care. Making a cup of coffee for the road outweighs the expectation of a prompt arrival by a landslide. Besides, she ponders, what are they going to do, (while we are in this era of teacher shortage) fire me? She giggles to herself at the joke based on a reality of after having spent the entire last year mentoring a brand new English teacher and creating sub plans for the constantly rotating substitutes for the other four classes.

She places her car in park and leans across the middle console to grab her puffy lunch bag overflowing with extra cookie filled containers for her co-workers, a Walmart bag of Jolly Ranchers and Dum Dums for the Kahoot game, and her giant purse jingling with a collection of keys carabiner-ed on and dangling off the side. It is also filled with candy: Smarties and peppermints for her own consumption.  

She pulls, and it tugs back. 

Somehow the strap has gotten tangled around the head of her umbrella and no yanking in the world will release it. So she gracelessly hefts her body across the console and around the tall cup of piping hot coffee in the center cupholder daring her to make a wrong move. Her legs jut outside the car. The cold rain splatter her bare ankles. She stretches and scootches until her finger tips finally reach the umbrella and free it from the space between the door and the seat. Could she have easily gotten out and walked around the car to free it. Yes. But why when you can start the day with yoga-like stretches to get the juices going. 

She climbs out of her car, situates the bags and the coffee, and lifts the umbrella as she starts to traverse the parking lot in the cold dismal rain when she spots a young girl off in the distance "nakedly" clad in a cropped top and short shorts. There is no umbrella, no jacket, no hat. She has her arms wrapped around her mid area protecting or warming herself as she trudged slowly and miserably along. The teacher realizes this student, who is not hers, still has to walk the length of the building to the student entrance on the other side. She runs over, careful not to drop the coffee, and gives the child her umbrella. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Smith," she says with a genuine and very grateful smile. They all seem to know her name, though she only knows those of her own.

"You're welcome. Just drop it off in the office," she calls over her shoulder as she sprints for the nearest door, which happens to be the morning holding area -- the gymnasium where the other 300 or so sixth graders are waiting to be released to the locker area.

She weaves between bodies, bumping a few with her bags before hearing a boy pleading with some young teacher to be allowed to go to the lockers early to drop off his cardboard. Upon reaching the doorway, she sees him. The tiniest little fellow, a sixth grader whose body has forsaken him by taking its own sweet time to grow, is holding a display board taller than him by an inch and triple his width. Where do you even buy anything like that? she wondered before approaching him and prying it from his grasp.

"Who is your teacher?" 

"It's Mr. K.," a relieved munchkin. "Thank you."

"Ok, I'll put it in his room." 

She, now, with the skill of an acrobatic juggling act, balances in one hand the three bags and the coffee, (careful not to spill a drop) and carries the huge display board down the hall before pausing to shout back, "Hey, what's your name? I will put it on the sticky note for your teacher."

"Cayden!" he shouted back.

"Okay." 

It's always "Cayden." They are always busy, needy little fellows she thought.

After dropping off the board with Mr. K, and then stopping to open up her own room while carefully setting down her coffee, she heads out into the locker area to yell at children: "Keep it moving." "Keep your hands to yourself!" "Stop running!" "Hey, you dropped something!" "Get to class!" No, it is not her duty; hers is in the afternoon, but the dean needs help, and the 300 plus will never make it to class without the supervision. The teachers whose duty it is to be there are never anywhere to be seen. They don't have the stomach for it. 

As she stands there barking orders at those who need the cattle prod and giving greetings and acknowledgments to those who need the love, all the while getting bumped and stepped on, a new young teacher creeps out of her den to make a last minute dash to the restroom (their bladders are still in training). Suddenly, the crowd goes wild and the students come alive and are screaming and yelling "Hi Ms. - (pick a name)" like she is a superstar celebrity, and they are paparazzi. 

It's okay though. The seasoned educator is not jealous. The neophyte needs the love to make her feel good and confident as a new teacher. And the older teacher revels in the fact that she secretly knows it is only because the newbie will play Roblox and Blooket against them, and understands their slang, and their jokes, and has more patience for noise, and will tolerate more tomfoolery. Heck, she would have been the vet's favorite teacher ,too... if her teachers behaved that way -- they didn't. 

She knows she's loved in a different way. All she has to do is miss one day of school for a doctor's appointment, and she is suddenly interrogated by 75 nosey 11 year olds to ascertain why she was absent. And,... it helps that know her grades are always a little bit higher on assessments.

Company

People steal

As they 

Bring you

Silent cries for help. 

They lay upon you

Their burdens.

Shocking

Words.

Nightmares.

Putting voice

To disturbing thoughts

growing stronger

as you

grow weak

And when you

reach out,

to help

uplift them,

They find fault

Everywhere

spewing rot

And disfunction

At you.

They want not

your help,

They want company.

Not Without Your Queen

Daisy was the queen of the house. This miniature schnauzer did not run to meet you at the door like other normal canine “companions.” Oh no! She waited for you to come and look for her. We should have been excited to see her lying there on the stair landing, close enough to see who was coming in the house, but far enough away to indicate her indifference. While other dogs jumped and leaped, and licked, and lapped bestowing all the love a dog could muster after a hard eight hour day of separation, Daisy merely rolled over and waited for us to bestow belly rubs befitting royalty. 

They say a dog who runs away is an unhappy one. Well, she must have been ecstatic because if not for her walks, she wanted no parts of the great outdoors -- with the exception of the boat where she absolutely loved lounging in the sun. However, as for running around the neighborhood, she had zero interest. We could leave a door wide open and she would not even get up out of curiosity, so imagine our surprise when she disappeared from our townhome on moving day.

We had rented a small truck for the big move from our little townhouse to our brand new spacious forever home. Unfortunately, we underestimated the size needed.We were going to need to make two or three trips to move the entire contents. This would be an all day affair. The door was propped open, and a one way train of furniture and furnishings headed down the stairs, out the door, and into the little truck. Meanwhile, Daisy lay quietly by. She made no attempt to run out. She never did. She merely observed. 

After the little truck was filled, we all jumped into the car leaving Daisy behind as we headed over to empty the first load. After an hour or so, we returned to the townhome to load up again. The front door was propped open, and the box train began to move from the upper floors to the truck waiting outside. After the Uhaul was filled once again, we all headed over to unload -- again without Daisy. We did not want to leave her in an unfamiliar setting as we moved back and forth between properties.

There was not much left for the third trip. We quickly filled the truck with our final haul. This time we would be taking our girl. 

“Daisy!” I called out. 

The sound of my voice echoed throughout the empty space. 

That's weird, I thought. I could have sworn I saw her lying in the corner by the window.

I ran upstairs and went room to room.  

“Daisy!” we all began to yell while searching inside the closets and bathrooms on various floors. Where could she be? There were no hiding places; everything was gone.

I couldn't remember when I actually last saw her. Then it dawned on me that the door had been left open all day long. It never occured to me that she would actually leave. I dashed outside frantically looking left and right. I scanned the neighborhood for our silver skirted girl with her curly legs darting in between bushes and yards but to no avail; I saw no movement. Then I belted out her name as loud as I could – a frantic mother screaming for her lost child, “DAISY!” 

All of a sudden, a head pop up behind the steering wheel of my Toyota Highlander. Apparently, while we were busy loading the truck, Daisy had loaded herself into the front seat of my vehicle where the door had been left open. The queen had determined that she may not know where this caravan was going, but the handwriting was on the wall, and she would not be left behind. It was time to go!

Nothing Like a Spring Reign

Tis the season

For snorting and sneezing.

Petals popping,

Pollen dropping,

Covered cars,

Green like mars.

Ah-choo!

God bless you.

Trumpets sound

All around

The running nose --

A fire hose.

Tissue please

For my next sneeze.

Oh dear, 

I fear,

that spring

is here!

Age, Time, and the Multiverse

I believe that time is proof of a multiverse. As we age, we enter another dimension where time is a tad bit slower than it used to be. I wake up everyday at 6:45 and complete the same steps that I always have for the last 18 years. However, whereas I used to be in my car by 8:00, when I jump in my car now and look at the time, it says 8:20 am. Clearly, I have moved to a dimension where time has sped up.

Or maybe this is proof of Einstein's theory of relativity and time dilation where time speeds up the slower we go. Considering the 20 minutes I have gained, I must be going really slow compared to past years (though I can't tell -- I don't feel any slower.) 

Or, maybe there is no multiverse, nor any noticeable time dilation. Maybe it's just the menopausal side effects of memory loss, and I am late due to running back in the house for the car keys, cell phone, coffee, notebooks, packages or anything else that I need and discover missing every morning when I get into my car. Moreover, these things are never where they are supposed to be which prompts a 10 minute or more... okay 15 minute search for said item.

No, it has to be the multiverse.

Friend or Foe, I Don't Know

Why is it that you always run into the very person that you measure yourself by and are on the losing end of the ruler, when you look your worst? You know, she's the beautiful friend from college who got all the guys when you couldn't catch one. She partied seven days a week, was a cheerleader and a pre-med major and still made straight A's. You were an engineering major who was at every party with her and had no extracurricular obligations, yet you were all but flunking out. She went on to become a doctor, and you dropped out and became a flight attendant. During the bridesmaid season of our lives, when she was in residency, she was kind enough to tell me I "missed my calling" as a compliment when I helped another bridesmaid fix her hair. We met at an ivy league school, so cosmetology was not one of the majors offered. Maybe she did not know.

We are in the same organization though in different states, so we bump into each other every year at the regional conference. In 2021, the year that everyone timidly came out of COVID hibernation, we had to have proof of a negative test within 24 hours in order to attend. I was so happy to be going to be near other people. I had passed my test and was ready. 

Well, I arrived a tad bit late (as always), so I had to park at the waaayyy-back portion of the lot and hurry so that I would not miss my meeting. I grabbed my heavy bag, my hot coffee, and proceeded to walk-run. Unfortunately, I am at the age where the tiniest bit of stress (and that includes running late and running across the lot) as well as certain food triggers like hot black coffee will set off a hot flash quicker than you can say the word itself: menopause. So the last piece of the COVID approval was a temperature check at the door. I failed.

The nice ladies serving as door bouncers said for me to stand to the side, and wait a minute, then we will take it again. However, that caused more stress. And I was still drinking my coffee. I failed again. The ladies all immediately stepped back -- way back -- from me and told me I had to find a CVS and take another test. 

I had driven four hours to get there and had paid 300 dollars for the conference; I was not giving up. I had to look up the nearest testing location, Waze the directions which sent me through scary sketchy neighborhoods, and pray for the proof I needed. I took the test again, and it was negative. By now, I was very late, and very anxious. I could feel the heat pouring off of me. I failed the temperature test, again.  

This time I began arguing with these cruel creatures the guardians of the door who were too young to understand the mechanics of menopause. I had paid for two tests, and they were both negative. Since I fulfilled my requirements to attend, I was demanding to be let in and was practically crying with frustration. They decided to call the manager of health for the entire conference about this crazy babbling lady who was attacking them when she was the one with the fever or so their instruments said. And when the head of health for the conference came out, to see this "hot" mess of a woman, it was my friend. Yes, she understood the mechanics of menopause, stress, coffee, running, and well, me. So she let me in.

Well, yesterday, five years later, I was attending the conference again. I had decided to skip a meeting and sleep in. My roommate came in and said that she needed help carrying some items to room 304. Still in my jammies, I threw my velour crumpled sweats on top and was looking pretty tacky and about ten pounds over weight with the combination of flannel and sweats. I did not bother with my hair, and my eye liner had smudged from my nap. I didn't care, I was going back to sleep upon my return.  I grabbed her little cart with the fancy silly little flags that she had cleverly tied on to announce her entrance with all of her donations and headed to the elevator. The door opened and who did I run right smack into but my friend. Will this humiliation ever end?

Death Defines

 When we think of death, most people think of the person closest to the deceased. How will they feel? How will they go on without their loved one. Or are they some one who was tasked with (in some cases burdened) with the care of an elderly person as if they are the only child, while their siblings live a carefree life. And in that case, what will mean the most to them -- being set free, or dealing with that hole in their heart? 

I was my mother's caretaker. Every Sunday for 10 years, was Mother's day. I started out shopping for her favorite candy and then I would head over the McDonald's for her favorite fish sandwich with no cheese and caramel sundae with no nuts. Sometimes I would surprise her with a take out order from Glory's Days. Once I arrived at the center, I'd wheel her into the dining hall. She would be so excited that she would stop everyone and introduce me as her daughter (again) and then brag to them that I bought her some food. I could see a jealous longing in their faces for the same (company or maybe it was the meal). Then we would play cards or watch a movie after she ate. If she were lucky, and I was not, I could come when the one-man-band was performing doing his best to make each resident feel special. Mom loved this day and wanted me to see that she was his favorite, so I couldn't leave until it was over. My mother lived in severe pain with various other incidents of extra suffering from Covid twice , to norovirus, to sepsis. When she passed, every one kept waiting for me to break down. But I did not. I was sad, yes, but I felt relieved. She did not have to suffer anymore.

Today, my husband called me to say that our neighbor that walked the dog everyday saw him and crossed the street to talk. 

 "Do you mean, Peter?" I asked.

"You know, the guy with the British accent or something. He has the white hair and is always walking the dog."

"Yes, that's Peter," I said.

Though we have lived there for 15 years, my husband had never talked to him beyond a wave and a hello. He is not a talkative, chat with the neighbors type. Moreover, Peter and I were on the same dog walking schedule. We would see each other every morning and would wave at each from across the street as my territorial schnauzer, Daisy, would unleash an angry barrage of barking in the direction of his Bruno. Occasionally we would chat above the noise from the two sides of the road about his wife or my son. 

"Well, today, I waved, and he suddenly came over."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, he said his wife had a stroke four weeks ago."

"Oh, no."

"When I asked how she was doing, he said she died."

"Oh, no," I repeated, more emphatically this time.

"He broke down and cried. Right there. He just opened up and fell into me and cried. So, I wrapped my arms around him, and held him while patting and rubbing his shoulders. He kept saying that he didn't know what he was going to."

In that moment, my heart simultaneously broke for Peter and filled with pride for my husband. He may not be the chatty neighborly dog walking type. But he knew exactly what was needed. He dropped his manly A-type marine colonel, airline captain persona, and held another man giving of his heart without reservation. 

Death truly can define us.

Spring's Song

When I arrived home from work during the second wave of unseasonal 30 degree weather, after having had two tortuously teasing days of 85 degrees before plummeting, I looked up and saw god's promise and smiled. Resilient tiny perfect pink buds were silently adorning the winter bare arms of our cherry tree. A sign that spring was coming.

Tiny pink blossoms

Silently wakes and hums spring

Songs of warm kisses

The Conference Clothes Catastrophe

I knew that I had a full night of packing ahead of me, yet I did not start until midnight. Unfortunately, it was then I discovered that I had purchased the wrong color gala dress. My sorority, as it often does, was doing this matchy thing and wanted everyone in black. So, I went to the closet to grab my long black evening gown only to find it missing. I then began a deep dive search at one in the morning that literally ripped my closet apart. I pulled out boxes that were neatly stored as quiet as I could so as not to wake my hubbie, only to have a stack of shoe boxes topple over at one point eliciting an irritated grunt. Eventually, I had a vague recollection of bagging it to take to the dry cleaners. Only it never left the trunk of my car. If I was correct, it is still there and was now a balled up mess of wrinkles beneath a pile of other balled up messes that I forgot to drop off two months ago. 

Switching gears, I dug out my old trusty dusty funeral dress. I must admit that it is not as bad as it sounds. It was actually really cute with a velour color and buttons all way down the front. The problem was that it was tainted with bad memories as I have worn it to the last five funerals that I attended. However desperation trumps bad juju. All I needed to do was find some rhinestone, gold, or silver shoes. 

I immediately attacked my special shoe collection and began rummaging and tearing apart the once neatly organized storage box of once in a blue moon – rarely used if ever – (some never) overpriced gems. By the time I was done, every shoe that had the least bit of gild or shine lay strewn about me. Because I rarely – if ever – had the opportunity to be adorned in such beauty, I had to take them all out. I couldn’t even remember what was in the box and may or may not have discovered that I bought the same shoe twice. 

So it’s now after two A.M and my husband is sawing logs pretty good. I used my phone’s flashlight to navigate the room and try them all on together with my funeral garb to see which shoe would finally have the chance to see the light of day. I slipped the dress over my head and proceeded to button it up. And stopped, or rather was forced to stop. I did not need the mirror to see that those buttons absolutely would not ever make it across the chasm of my belly to reach the other side. What in the world? When did this happen? I swear I just wore it five months ago.  Am I bloated? Was it something I ate? How does this happen overnight?” I quietly lamented to the god of girth. 

I swear I have not increased my intake of food. I eat the same amount and actually am drinking less. I stood there in the dim flashlight lit room staring at what clearly now looked like a 4 or 5 month pregnancy halting the buttoning process.I was so distraught. Life is not fair. I just know that menopause and maybe the fructose in that glass of wine did this to me. 

I disappeared back into my closet and began quietly and sullenly digging around again. This time I checked the semi-formal knee length flocks and hoped that society would not secretly admonish me for a perceived lack of knowledge of formal vs semi-formal while smiling at me in the face and blowing air kisses. As it turns out, none of them fit either. I know I had been straggling that invisible size line where you can still wear your old clothes,  but in the store you were forced to go up. It seems I have crossed that line. 

Eventually, I did find one that would suffice, thank goodness. It had a looser skirt and was styled with the most wonderful adornment. It had a peplum waist that could easily disguise that abomination of a belly. 

I am going to have to go shopping after this conference. And I have a feeling a preponderance of peplum style skirts and blouses will be dominating my closet in the unforeseen future… And a regular workout routine with be dominating my time. 

21 Reasons

The following is a love poem to my husband. Today we celebrate our 21st anniversary. The following will mean nothing to you, but everything to us.

21 Years of Memories

1. Walking hand in hand in Munich

2. Real Estate Lessons, Snorkeling, Barbados, and dancing on a boozy cruise

3. Boston Marathon

4. Dancing on the plaza in Boston

5. Red shoes in Denver

6. Climbing the mountain to Boulder

7. Wrapping a scarf around your neck atop a double decker bus in Paris

8. London Hoghead

9. Snow Mobiling and Ski Lessons in Whistler

10. My 50th birthday party

11. Four wheeling and horses in the Dominican Republic with our youngest love

12. St. Martin with the Gilchrist's 2025

13. Wedding Cruise

14. Your 50th birthday party at Tom’s house

15. Our son's Birth Day

16. Falling in love with St. Martin in 2012

17. Our son's wedding

18. Ghana, Africa

19. Cruise with AV and the Rosario crew

20. Budapest

21. The Baby Shower: The Next Chapter.