On one side of now is menopause
and power surges and also more
wrinkles, thin skin and arthritis, and
brittle bones and even more gray hair.

On the other side is giggling all
night over nothing, pink lace, giddy
dreams about the future with starry
eyes and sharp short excited in- breaths.

How long can I teeter here in the
middle with the best of both worlds at
my fingertips: between child and crone,
older, wiser, better, beautiful?

Dear Age n. Gravity,

It has recently come to my attention that you have been very busy altering my personal space, to wit: the actual physical body which I inhabit. I realize that time marches on and you have a job to do, and I am willing to work with you so that both of us are mutually satisfied in our relationship.

I did not complain when the crow’s feet appeared at the outer corners of my eyes, because I am generally a pleasant person, given to easy laughter, and I expect my good humor to show itself in my face. Nor did I complain about the puffy eyelids, because I felt the need to give you some latitude in your duties, and you have, after all, left my hair dark for far longer than I ever expected to be a brunette. I did not even mention the enlarged pores on my face, because, frankly, they were never small to begin with, and one just learns to live with certain things after nearly four decades of life.

However, your latest act is unacceptable, and I believe it is in clear contradiction to the User Agreement I consented to in my teens. It was totally unfair of you to wreak havoc on my rack while I was pregnant and nursing babies and therefore unable to keep careful tabs on exactly what was going on with my breasts. I find your behavior appalling and your disregard for my feelings unconscionable. I hereby demand that you retrieve these shapeless bags of goo that you placed on my chest and bring me back my BOOBS.

Technorati Tags: Age, Gravity

Stitcher sat in her rocker, her gaze intent on the Godey’s Lady’s Book in her hands. This was an old one and had been through several readers. She still enjoyed the poems, and the crochet patterns, but she thought some of the fashions were quite foppish. She found the short stories interesting, as well, and the articles about real people intrigued her most of all. She read the magazine cover to cover, of course, including the advertisements in the back. This issue contained one for Arabic Courses in addition to the usual fare, and she found this amusing for reasons she could not quite explain.

She turned back to the patterns, and began to think about a new dress. She most often wore dark colors, those being fine and serviceable for everyday wear, but this time she was thinking in shades of blue, with perhaps a bit of lace trim. She was needing a bit of fanciness for the upcoming holiday season, and blue would set off both her eyes and the silver in her hair. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea of lace on the dress itself, so she went to her button box to see what would be appropriate for the material she saw in her mind’s eye. These mother of pearl buttons would be wonderful with the rich blue velvet she saw in her imagination. She would fashion a bonnet to match it, and wear it with the white shawl she had made as a wedding gift to herself. She would ask John to fetch the material for her when next he went to town.

Technorati Tags: creative writing

Stitcher walked through the room, intent on her purpose. She took a moment to caress the back of her rocker as she almost always did. A smile flitted across her face as she remembered the hands of the man who had made it for her. It fitted her perfectly, being midway between kids furniture and the size most adults preferred. It had been crafted with love, and it showed, both in the perfect size and in the detailed scroll work of the headrest. There was a matching one on the other side of the short space, less used, and larger to accommodate it’s owner.

She moved quickly now, her small feet making tiny clicking noises on the wood floors. There was much to be done in the next hours. Food would be needed, and so she began in the kitchen. It seemed she always began in the kitchen, cooking. She ended most of her days there as well, sipping a last cup of coffee or tea with her thoughts before bed. It was the first place anyone looked for her, and she was as much a part of it as the cupboards. The kitchen with her in it was a pleasant place, and without her, it seemed barren, almost without purpose, in spite of the stove and icebox it held.

Technorati Tags: creative writing

Living with insomnia means living in a world with only shades of grey, when other people see colors.

Living with insomnia means living in slow motion and even the most mundane tasks are overwhelming.

Living with insomnia means that even the sound of laughter is cacophony and painful to your ears.

Living with insomnia means you forget things, all kinds of things, like the things you need from the grocery store and also birthdays.

Living with insomnia means it takes all morning to wake up.

Living with insomnia means that thinking about sleeping and thinking about not sleeping rob you of the time you are awake.

Living with insomnia means using up your mental and spiritual energy just trying to survive the day.

Technorati Tags: insomnia

Yes you. The same one that “rakes” your yard by blowing the leaves into mine, and also dumps your food scraps over the property line into my back 40,

I had my children out today cleaning up the area behind my fence. I own that area, having paid for it with the property, just as you own the area behind your immediate back yard. I know you understand this concept, since you have plowed up for a lovely garden back there. Unfortunately for me, that garden of yours extends fully 6 feet into my yard. I hope you don’t mind if I harvest that produce.

Furthermore, while we were out there, we picked up numerous tin cans that escaped your burn pile which also happens to be in my yard. We found 2 empty fertilizer bags as well, which I must assume you used on your garden, the one in my yard. We also found the springs from a burned mattress set. I can only assume it is yours since so much of the other stuff belongs to you.

This family of 10 makes plenty of garbage without your help. As a rule, we get it into garbage cans and certainly never throw it in someone else’s yard. I’d appreciate it if you’d bother yourself to think about the extra work you are making for me when you transfer your trash from your property to mine. You might also consider the example you are setting for my children, unless that’s too big a concept for your redneck mind to grasp.

Sincerely,
Your hacked off neighbor

Technorati Tags: trash, redneck, redneck neighbor

The small woman sat in her rocker. The chair itself was made of wood, and squeaked rhythmically with her motions. It was a pleasant squeak, one that reminded her children of days gone by, when they were the baby rocked to sleep on mother’s lap. The cushion was needlepoint, old and faded, but still comfortable, and still telling lovely stories of skillful hands intent on making beautiful things.

Beside the chair was a table, surface satiny from age and smooth with use. It held her Bible, her spectacles and two antique table lamps. Their warm yellow glow illuminated the planes of her face, as she rocked and waited, waited and rocked. The waiting was the hardest part, and the lines on her face showed that she had been waiting a very long time.

Under the table was a basket, and in that basket was her handi-work. There was bright red wool being knit into a sweater for her youngest child and a thinner, duller wool being knit into socks for her middle child. In her hands, for she had taken it out of the basket to work on it, was a lace cap being knit with fine white silk to add to the pile of small baby gifts that were waiting, as she was waiting.

Technorati Tags: short story, creative writing

Hands reach for mine,
Tiny baby hands that want comfort and solace,
Warm and full of life,
And connected to chests that giggle
In pleasure when I reach back.

Hands reach for mine,
Medium sized hands that want companionship,
Fast hands that have almost outgrown Mom’s reach,
And don’t hold on too long lest they
Be seen to still need me.

Hands reach for mine,
Adult sized hands that want understanding,
But barely brush my fingertips,
And these hands are moving on in life
In search of being all grown up.

One hand reaches for mine,
An old, gnarled and ugly hand
Slow and unsteady and painful.
This is the hand that comforted me.
This is the hand I never outgrew.
This is the hand of Love.