“Wisteria. Sounds like hysteria. The faintest brush of purple. Woody. Twining. Ethereal. Angels could rest here.” Writer Kerry Slavens ponders living, and dying, and the seasons of pain.
The path I walk is not always a light filled space of illuminating proportions. Sometimes, the shadows slink and push out the shine, leaving me to wonder if I will ever feel whole again. It is in those moments that I doubt almost everything in my life. I say almost everything because it is also […]
There is a painting hanging in my kitchen. It was given to me by the woman I bought this house from. She was a single mother too. She raised three children in this house. We bonded almost immediately and dealt with most of the sale transaction without the realtor. We preferred it that way; we […]
When Kylen learned her four-legged soulmate Aries was terminally ill, she knew the loss would be devastating. What she didn’t expect was Aries’ final gift.
On Sunday morning, I dutifully planted myself on a church pew, cursed the itch of new nylon stockings, and entertained myself with the silent addition of the phrase “under the covers at night” to the ends of hymn titles.