Narrow labyrinth paths that fret memories: a homeless woman, I am a mother on a bus, who sees a woman and says to herself, it is my daughter.
Remember those days where your imagination was populated by army men posing as villagers, frogs waited to destroy your sleepy village, and some elbow grease was used to bring it all together? And it all took place outside…in a galaxy far, far away.
Not everyone embraces the journey to adulthood with enthusiasm. Sometimes adulthood needs to take a back seat and wait for the hormones to kick in. Without those much-needed hormones, first kisses can be downright gross.
The magic of the moment when a child realizes that the planets and the stars are real, not just pictures in story books or drawings in a science text, can profoundly affect her understanding of other life experiences.
Part of being a firefighter is knowing that you are helping, but sometimes the only thing you can do is watch while someone’s world goes up in smoke.
A tangible benefit of writing memoir is catharsis – in sharing the story, to feel the events – and in some way, be able to let go of the emotional charge.
I worked in father’s bakery. Peeled potatoes for potato bread. Melted dark chocolate. Washed copper pots and whisks and baking sheets. Swept wide-plank oak floors.
Guest Author Sonya Ward writes about her childhood days in Calcutta, India in the early forties.
My mother Magda has me fitted at the seamstress. Die Schneiderin measures my waist, the length of my arm. The hemline. Buttons. Belt. “White for a First Communion dress. And a short-sleeved summer dress.”
It was early morning and still dark. The wind was at gale force and howling. She was testy today and grabbed the power lines wrapping them around a tree at the head of the driveway.