As I lay here beside his twelve-year-old body, I note, as I have so many other nights, the deep, even sounds of his breath. He’s laying on his back, arms sprawled out to the side like Christ on the cross. The backside of his hand is actually resting on my cheek and nose. His hand is soft and warm and I close my eyes so I can travel through time… With my eyes closed, his hand could be twelve or six, or even two years old. And I enjoy the fantasy of traveling back in time and having had this experience of laying beside a healthy deeply sleeping Alex. I imagine tiny baby Alex laying beside me in bed with his hand on my face. And then the tears come. Because there was never such a night. And for a moment I lose contact with here and now and his sweet hand on my face, and my whole body tenses as the memory replaces the fantasy. His high pitched relentless wail, the way he would arch his whole body I wonder how many parents have never even noticed their 12-year old’s breathing as th
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Shooting Sunshine Chapter 1
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Chapter 1 Manhattan, New York “I used to be Amish.” The extra-hot, double shot, oat milk latte burbled in Darcy King’s stomach. She clutched the cup in an over-caffeinated death grip, fearing any moment it would crumple and cascade coffee down her white cashmere sweater. “At least my family was…back in the day.” Everyone—every editor and staff writer and editorial assistant and freelance photographer like herself and, oh yes, the terrifying Editor in Chief of Hudson Magazine, Margo Ricconi-Gladstone herself, stared. Darcy shifted on the three-inch wide windowsill at the back of the conference room where she perched with the other freelancers lucky enough to gain access to editorial meetings and desperate to maintain that status. She swallowed hard, tasting coffee and fear. She’d been advised repeatedly to fly under the radar. Drawing attention to herself and in so doing, the ire of every senior staff member was not necessarily wise. Some staffers rolled their eyes and smirked.
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Five months into the pandemic I ordered a desk and set up my office in my bedroom, 16” from my bed. For the first five months I had been hunched over the kitchen island on a bar stool with my feet in the spice basket, and four feet away Emma worked from the couch - it was not ideal. Emma came home a day after I started working remotely and, because she was still teaching in Ireland, often taught from her bed in the guest room at 4 am (10 am in Dublin). During the days, we dodged phone calls and meetings (Emma like to work with music on, I do not), often taking calls in the bathroom or running upstairs if the call didn’t require access to a laptop. I had grand visions of working from the deck, lovely calming view at the ready, but the reality was that the VPN was spotty out there and the noise factors of wind, trucks backing up, and neighbors also working outside meant the conditions were never perfect. Occasionally I could rock a few hours working on a spreadsheet if the sun a
The Glaring Chapter Six
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I tried to push aside my emotions—to look at the photo objectively and see what was really there not what I was afraid was there. I wouldn’t let my mind play tricks on me. I took a deep breath and squinted at the photo in Chris’s hand. To the right of the trunk, Chris and Andi, dressed bunched in their arms, were doubled over, laughing. To the left, Becca posed behind the pink meringue, lips pursed like a fashion model. I leaned toward her, grinning, the slinky, green dress held up to my shoulders and my left leg kicking wonkily out to one side. All that was perfectly normal. Behind the trunk…someone… peeked over the open lid. The pattern fabric covering the inside of the top almost looked like a dress she wore. I blinked. “Is it just a smudge? Or a fingerprint?” Andi shook her head. “I see a face. Eyes and a nose. Hair even. I think she’s…smiling.” Chris studied the picture then looked over it and across the room. “Could it be Ellen’s reflection in the window?” Andi sn
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April 29, 2020 I’m claiming Julia on HBO Maxx for myself: it was apparently made just for me. Oh sure, you can watch it if you like, but ask yourself: did you work for WGBH as a freshly scrubbed college grad in the early 80s? Did Avis DeVoto share space in your office (a trailer far away from the main studio even though the Auction raised 11% of the station’s operating budget)? Did you also go to women’s college? And shared a love of cooking from an early age? Okay, fine. You will love the show as I do even if you haven’t ticked any of those boxes. Why? Because it is magical. It is important. It’s entertaining and lovely and thought provoking. It initially sets you wondering: how much of this is true? But after a while, you don’t care – you want to be under it’s/her spell. At first glance you might think, oh boy, another take on Julia Child - just what I need . But it’s more than that – it’s the story about the early struggles of public television. About a woman in he
Some unedited thoughts about grief. My grief. Putting it here so I'll continue to work on it.
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I’ve been trying to write about grief and about losing my mother. The words we choose are so strange. Losing. I didn’t LOSE her the way you lose a cardigan when you are too drunk to remember to take it off the back of your chair when you leave the bar. I was there. I saw her go. I know that she is gone. GONE. Another one. Is she GONE? I don’t know. She could be sitting right next to me, but her physical self is no longer here. I can’t hold her hand. I can hope for one more quick smile. When you comfort me… don't say RELIEF… as in IT MUCH BE SUCH A RELIEF. don't say BETTER PLACE. don't say I MEAN AFTER ALL YOU'VE BEEN THROUGH... It robs me of my loss and of my grief. You are trying to make yourself feel better maybe by trying to imagine that her death doesn't hurt as much as you think it might. Your desire to make it less doesn't make it so. It sort of makes it worse. Instead, say things like... Jesus, it must be so hard. She really d