In a single year, this grandbaby has left a mark on my heart…her vainglorious filigree.
"Happy Mother's Day, dude," they said. So at their urging, I drank a six-pack.
Oh, this old house. A good place to peel potatoes or butter a turkey. If the water is running, you can’t hear the TV.
Why are we on Santa Monica Beach? First of all, the place is a poem -- I’ve written sonnets to it before.
“Jesus is risen!” as they say in church, and I’m still stuck down here with a hundred gophers, in the little house that used to be a Wienerschnitzel.
The other shoppers can’t figure out why the checker is laughing. It’s affecting her scanning somewhat. She’s one of those people who jiggles when she giggles.
My grandbaby is all the things I am not. She is new.
Easter is voile dresses and flowers in the kids’ hair. This year, it's also these amazing Ukrainian eggs.
This creature … this scion…this legacy. Miss him so much his very first Easter away.
At my age, I need to stand in the kitchen with someone funny, shoulder to shoulder, cutting carrots. With her.