Forever Young: 2018

Blog Manifesto

This blog is dedicated, as the title would suggest, to the qualities of being young. We are young writers. We are playful and sensitive, fluid and changing. We are unashamed with our art. We wonder at the world, puzzle over the meanings of things and twirl in delight at images and ideas that float by, grabbing at them as they pass. We are curious and constantly inquiring and prying concepts open and taking assumptions apart. We are on the ground, close to the earth. We have bare feet and wiggle our toes into nature. We carry our blankies still and wrap up cozy and comfy with each other and tell ghost stories and shiver at creepy things. We laugh and we cry and we take a lot of naps, drained from our outings and exertions.

We write as gifts to each other, tying them up in ribbon and leaving them around for each other to find, hiding and waiting for the person to wake up and read. Surprise! We weave our stories together to create a bond. One writes, then the other. then another again. We have a shared reality that we have crafted, bit by piece by patch, by string. We write simple, honest authentic things, with our unique voices. You can tell each one of us from the other, without knowing who wrote what. Our voices are clear and gentle and original. We whisper and our personalities roar! Like children, our feelings are strong, our passion for what we write shakes us. We are moved and sometimes left breathless, by our own words or the words of each other. We cannonball into each others spaces. We fall backward into each others writing, like into a pile of leaves or a soft bed. We gobble and grin and ask for more. (footnote kudos to JC)

Then we go to bed, wake up to a new day and do it all over again!

Friday, December 21, 2018

My son died.

My son died a horrible death. It was quick, I guess. It had to be painful, but not for long, I guess.

I look over the nightmare of losing him and I am numb.

It is huge when you lose a child.

You know that JC. and now I do too.

It's brutal grief that bends you to the ground.

No words.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Visit the new baby

Rosie's hands and feet were kept bandaged for a week and she had to stay up on a bed. Questions were asked and evasively answered. Sheila did the best she could to avoid John's wrath and growing suspicions.

But why would she climb on an ash pile?
I don't know John.

Rosie wasn't talking about it. Mama had said she would bandage her mouth as well, if she did.

Burns are a hard pain. They are constant. The pain keeps your mind busy. Rosie didn't remember much of the move. She was carried from one bed to another in the new house and put up to watch the bustle.

Sheila was proud of her new house. It has two rooms, not one. Water ran in the sink from a faucet. Her mother and father were coming over to see the new baby and the new house. They weren't too excited about her having a second child, there wasn't much stability for the first one. She was nervous for the visit, and the questions that Mother would have for her when she saw Rosie. John was gone when the parents came. He didn't get along with Sheila's dad who was younger than he was.

Rosie was the first thing they saw when they came into the room.

Forever Young

Blog Manifesto

Blog Manifesto

Friday, December 21, 2018

My son died.

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Visit the new baby

Sunday, March 11, 2018

Rosie..