September 7, 2019 9:01 am They walk by without saying good morning, even if I’ve said it first. They sit in front of the TV, a tablet, their phone and let the dog or cat eat from their abandoned cereal or snack bowl. Hey…wait a minute. When did they start eating on the couch? There … More two-face and smiling darkside
Round-faced and tow-headed. Tan from hours of summer sun. A kid on the swings. Back-and-forth. Little hands wrapped tight. Around the chains. Arms and legs pumping. Eyes closed on the backswing. Open on the return. My first taste of freedom. Like flying. Summer days spent on the swings. Singing Elvis Presley songs. For my Dad, … More swinging
Handprints on windows. Fingerprints on the fridge. A pair of wet socks in the sink. Cereal bowl and spoon sitting on the couch. The smart TV shows THE AMAZING WORLD OF GUMBALL to the dog. She’s curled up in a big pink blanket, surrounded by a dozen stuffed animals, and has a purple bow on … More summer vacation
We walk past the boat harbor. Sailboats bob in the bay. Purple and yellow flowers line the sidewalk as we pass the water treatment plant. They are not enough to take the mind and nose away from the stench, but the smell doesn’t bother us. It’s something we have come to know as home. I … More color
monarchs © 2012 Brooke Stevens My kids love without conditions. They care about people and animals. Water, dirt and sand, rocks and trees. They care about many things. They have not yet been spoiled by their surroundings. They want to help others. Pick up trash. Recycle. Give. Not only to those less fortunate but to everyone. … More running out of time
He’s lost it a little. That something that pushed and pushed and pushed him. It was light. But there was deep darkness too. Days did not end or begin. They only moved seamlessly one into another. And now that he is full and filling out—heavier, slower, more patient with the world—he has so much of … More and tonight, there is this
He comes to me. Big, brown eyes. Smiling. “Daddy, let’s pick night crawlers.” “What for?” He does a little jump. Claps his hands. “For fishing!” My boy. Five years old. Tickled with the notion of traipsing through puddles, picking slimy worms. “But we can’t go fishing today,” I say. “Mom will be here soon.” Undefeated. … More after the rain
