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It has been said that when you name something, you become more attached to it. This was not the case for me, considering I was already attached to it from the start. I’ve always been obsessed with rabbits and I’m not sure why. Maybe it is because they are seen as innocent prey, something I can relate to. “Bunny” was what I called my adorably, black and white spotted rabbit when I tried to revive her, and Bunny is what I will always refer to her as.

I woke up to see that she was lying on the floor on her side, looking like road kill. It was after that, that I found out rabbits only lie to their side to soothe themselves from …

As we were jogging towards the soccer field, I was surprised by how many people were already in the audience. As we ran into the field, we got into a line to warm-up our kicking. As each of us kicked the ball towards the goalie, I took a quick glance toward the opposing team on the other side of the field. It seemed like most of them were twice my size, which was a little intimidating. The way they controlled the ball and the distance that they kicked it made them look older than they actually were, when the truth was that all of us were still in middle school. Even after our practice drills and exercise warm-ups, I was still a bit intimidated by …

The suspense was driving me mad. I stood up, intending to pace the room, walk up the stairs; then – the door opened.

The evening was crisp and chilly. The ghostly wind wafted around me, procuring goose bumps along the length of my arms, underneath a thin-layered shawl. The cold air whooshed into my chest, and the sensation momentarily calmed my panicked thoughts. My mind raced over the times again; the bus route, the dress, the tickets, the map. Time was quickly catching up to me, so I lengthened my stride into a surefooted glide.

I took the steps leading to the magnificent venue two at a time, momentarily acknowledging in my peripheral vision two musicians’ perplexed looks as I passed them. …

I’m in love with a lady as old as the earth; yet, despite her age she’s so full of life. Unlike most, she’s forever beautiful and ever-changing, I’ve spent a lot of years trying to be comfortable around her but she always surprises me. Some of the best days of my life involve her, as do some of my worst. She’s managed to ruin my chances of success by consuming me; I’m always thinking about her. Yet she never thinks about me. She doesn’t even know my name but I’m still drawn to her. She often beats the living hell out of me for no particular reason, but I still love her. She’s taken everything from me but that doesn’t bother me in the slightest. …

The train had been delayed 9 hours. i had spent the last two months in the northwest, traveling with the basque man, my love, my true north. i was not looking forward to leaving, nor returning to my working life, so this extended travel delay was a mixed blessing. it was interrupting the inevitable good-bye, which would take me nearly a thousand miles to the south, to work, to the desert dry place where i live. no more clove-scented-by-wild-rose air, or wide open lush green wilderness or nights spent next to another.... scrub brush and heat and dust and dirt awaited me at the other end... but for now, nine more hours to savor michael...

eventually, amtrak arrives and i …

I enjoyed all the festivities but now I need to nap.
For many, many presents the family did unwrap.

The squeals of chatter and laughter ring in my ear.
Excedrin’s my salvation. Long ago I gave up beer.

It must have been an orphan that authored Silent Night.
For silence at family gatherings is a non-existent sight.

On the way to my respite, the kitchen I must pass.
My heart tumbles into a pit of self-pitying morass.

"Rest will have to wait", I sigh, "For I have so much to do".
"Will this holiday ever be over?” My mood's turning blue.

My husband's in his recliner, cursing the Charger's fumble.
I furiously wash the dishes. And I mumble. And I …

In the beginning...
there is You.
there is Me.
attempting We.

gentle conversation. sweet, lingering touch.
exploring the possibility for becoming We.

You becomes you.
Me becomes me.
growing possibility for becoming We.

more touch, less conversation.
you still you; me still me.
some struggle with unity.
necessary for becoming We?

festering fear, doubt and insecurity.
conversation grows in volume!
the you becomes YOU!
the me becomes ME!
injuring We.

some recognition, some prayer;
with forgiveness grows security.
the YOU modulates to You.
the ME tempers to Me.
hope restored for the We?

Over time....
evidence of fear is still lurking.
inability to marry the Me into You
and the You into Me.
failure to nurture the We.
Read more »

It may occur in the form of a visual attack via a glaring, sinister red panel light. The announcement may come through an auditory assailment: Verbalized in the characteristic groaning of gears, the language of machinery gone awry. Or, quite possibly, it may be revealed through an all out olfactory assault as the noxious odors of overheated metals and toxic fluids permeate the air. In all of this evidence lies one inescapable truth --- I am in the throes of car trouble.

Those two little words, car and trouble, when used in conjunction incite within me powerful emotional reactions. Immobilizing fears surface in the realization that I must deal with the issue at hand. As a single female parent, whose knowledge of …

here i stand:
... stately, strong, solid and still...
so still that it becomes deafening at times.
a hollow, resounding, bellowing void.
vacant.

... as ceiling meets roof soaring high - proudly brandishing the brave facade worn by one who has perched precariously on top, all the while hiding in its eaves the rumination of the lacking social in its structure.
... as rafters, gone batty, audibly groan their displeasure, struggling to settle with the engulfing, suffocating loneliness that permeates throughout.
... as unpolished floors remain supportive, unyielding: despite the absence of wax and footfalls which bestow luster and meaning.
... as spacious spaces, nestled inside, echo their yearnings to hold life within, eager to womb melodies of conversation, laughter and tears.
... as …

Time, according to Webster's primary definition, is a "continuous, measurable quantity in which events occur in apparently irreversible order." I submit that time did not originate as a measurable quantity; it was instead a free-flowing continuous entity, much less formidable than in its present state.

Man, in his infinite wisdom, chose to lasso this unconstrained flux into tangible units of measure. Carefully calculating and analyzing -- although I would question the accuracy as is evidenced by the necessity of the leap year --- the astronomers of yesteryear devised time as we know it today on the theory that it would create a semblance of order for the universal good of mankind. A theory which has proven false for me. Time continually remains …

I find it intriguing every time it occurs: Every time that a certain sound, smell or sight triggers a memory from the past. When some event, that I believed was safely tucked away and forgotten, resurfaces. Today, as I ponder the celestial expanse before me, a veritable floodgate of memories and emotions emerge for it was on a day such as this that we buried my father.

That event occurred ten years ago, under a similar steely winter sky adorned with soft billowy clouds. Clouds of this nature are normally reserved for the royal blue skies of summer and are seldom witnessed in the dead of winter. The stark contrast of their vivid brightness against the cold, slate gray backdrop seemed hauntingly appropriate. It …

My mother talked to me about sex only once. I was ten-years-old. She was in the middle of giving me a piano lesson in the rumpus room of our Long Island suburban home. Bubbles of sweat covered her top lip.

“Are you feeling OK, Mom?” I asked.

“There’s a film in health class tomorrow on menstruation. Read this pamphlet,” was all she said.

That’s why, three years later, I became confused when my mother asked me to join her in being part of a market research study conducted by a man testing the quality of his company’s brassieres. How could she be comfortable with this?

The first time …

Waiting in the ER waiting room for six hours.

Amish people. I thought they didn't drive cars.

A man with a mullet walking around with a large bag of jerky and a can of Yoo-hoo!

A woman screaming about her migraine. She has been there for "10 hours." It's 1am and she arrived at 9. Math isn't her strength, but she will press charges on this hospital.

An ADD Latino man in a passionate conversation with his girlfriend. He likes the word "fuck" and keeps confusing Greg Ferguson with Greg Kinnear.

A woman walks by with her catheter bag on the way outside to smoke a Swisher Sweet.

Here we honeymooned, Las Rocas Hotel, view the same, room the same, private balcony, hammock perfect for the two of us. Pacific waves carry us, toss us. We can afford more expensive meals now, order Margaritas at the pool, but so many mountains we have climbed, all those detours to the sun—our faces wrinkled and older now, our bodies thicker, our souls more tired.

Petrified by heights, but in love, so years ago I climbed a mountain to paint the biggest heart ever, fill it with our names so everyone could see. The heart's still there. I often think of when she's out with her husband, she looks up, sees us together again. Yes, love's sweet; so is revenge.

I was always a rambunctious child. I had little perception of how my actions affected those around me. When I was five years old, my mom and I lived with my grandmother in a retirement community. Since most of the residents were either approaching or already in their twilight years, there were few kids my age to play with. Occasionally some of our neighbors would have their grandchildren come to stay with them for a school break.
One of those kid’s name was Tyler. His grandparents lived in a ground floor condo, right in front of a canal. We became fast friends in the way that only children can; we played together a lot for the few …

Two days before my wedding, my mother pulled out a circa 1969 National Geographic magazine she had set aside for my future husband, who is an airline pilot. The cover story on the future of transportation featured predictions about supersonic transport, automated ticketing, and buses and houses that fly. Happy for a distraction from the wedding, Chris and I flipped through the magazine to the last page, and that's where we met Mrs. Ed Flynn.
The ad for Mazola cooking oil and margarine featured a woman nuzzling her husband as she offered him heaping bowl of salad beneath the tag line, "Tonight's the night Mrs. Ed Flynn starts Polyunsaturating her husband." Poor Mrs. Ed. Here she was undertaking a revolution in home economics …

"A girl with a pathway of crimson red leading up her arm
A girl with a mind spawned by the wrong reasons.
A girl whose smile blossomed in all the seasons.
A girl destroyed not by music, but by teens.
A girl who slowly decayed on her computer screen.
A girl whose lungs did once breathe in air.
A girl whose death was not fair.
A girl who had a life and dreams.
Or so it seems...
That those lyrics didn't mean anything.

So why's music to blame,
For this soul that tragedy seemed to claim?".

Sitting, staring out the window is where I am found,
staring at the raindrops as they fall to the ground.
The day that she passed away, it was raining like this.
Her presence and joyfulness I will forever miss.

Barbed wire, cobblestone trees.
The wind performing gymnastics,
Dancing around me.
Clouds climbing the labber to heaven.
The ground just below my bare feet moves;
My small being cannot feel the rotation.
Gravity pulling my limbs down to earth.
Noting is as beauiftul as this,
It feels like rebirth.
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