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The Robin

Published on April 23, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

Is there any special meaning when a robin crosses your path? They are, to my eye, the very harbinger of spring. Some say they offer good luck, positivity, and joy. Others say a robin suggests growth, renewal, change.

It’s one thing to see them bob-bob-bobbin’ along across the lawn, perhaps pulling a worm from the ground. It’s another thing entirely, in my opinion, what’s been going on at my house recently. Early one morning a couple weeks ago, a robin tapped at our bedroom window, not once, not twice, but over and over. The same robin returned the next day. And many days thereafter. Here, our granddaughter (amusingly, nicknamed “Bird”) discovers him, tapping hello –

Scientists posit that this behavior means that they are being territorial, that they can see their reflection and are ‘fighting off’ another bird:

If a robin has chosen your yard and location as a good site (yeah for you as they are very cool birds), then both parents will defend that area throughout the nesting period. That means that ‘other’ robin in the window is a real threat to them. The more energy and time they take to fight that guy, the less they spend with their babies or eggs or feeding. So, it is helpful for the bird for you to intervene and convince them that the bird they are seeing is gone.
Native Bird Care (Oregon)

We’ve lived in this house more than thirty years; I’ve never seen such bird behavior before. What has changed? We are quite certain our visitor is one robin and not a variety of robins; we have been studying their feathers and shape. Thinking that the nearby shrubs might be harboring a bird’s nest, I went out and checked out the landscaping in the vicinity of our bedroom window. There was no sign of a bird’s nest. The robin must be feeling territorial for some other reason than protecting a nest. Perhaps they have discovered some yummy nearby ‘fast food’ berries or worms, and are trying to protect their stash from other robins?

Just today, I added this crocheted shawl to the window in order to change the light and glare, to reduce the possibility of the robin seeing their reflection:

This is not the look I was going for in my bedroom, but I’m beginning to feel responsible and worried about that robin. They’ve left dozens of scratch marks on my window glass; their beak must be getting quite sore.

One day in, the stats are great: no robin visited the window today. Let me close with a simple revision of Rock-In Robin:

He rocks at our window all day long
Hoppin' and a-boppin' and a-singing his song
All the lil’ people that live at this house
Are trying to figure this out, out, out

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Musing

Published on April 16, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

Someone is singing an opera in my backyard as I write; they’ve been at it all morning. My Merlin app tells me they are a Northern Flicker, a visually beautiful dear soul with dotted plumage, yet I cannot catch even one tiny glance. They prefer to sing from deep within the leafing branches of the maple tree, and perhaps their song is one of lament because I am not able to see them. Yes, I put myself at the center of their song.

I don’t know what to tell you.

Hmm.

Does anyone else have trouble starting a ‘Slice of Life,’ now that the March challenge is over and the writing is not daily?

Which personal thread to grab onto and run-write with it?

I simply don’t know.

I could tell you about my relaxing weekend in the woods, on retreat with my book group. I could write about our conversation about Ann Patchett’s Tom Lake. Oh, and how a few of us watched the 1940 film classic of Our Town, as a little ‘background’ for the book.

(Should I tell you how surprising it was that this movie deigned to create a new ‘happy’ ending for Thornton Wilder’s play?)

I could focus on just one hike, share with you the sweet spring growth I observed. Here are a couple photos of this emergence:

Oh, but I’ve shared about countless hikes in this space.

How about I tell you about the book I’m reading – Terrance Hayes’ Watch Your Language? I am absolutely awed by his witty and playful writing, how he draws clever doodles throughout the book, and simultaneously offers so much scholarly wisdom on Black poets and the history of modern poetry in general. He is piercing many myths I have swallowed whole. With every page, my understanding and curiosity about poetry expands.

I don’t know where to begin.

Consider this excerpt about Gwendolyn Brooks, as he considers the historical timeline of ‘modern great poets’ –

Brooks makes any conversation about American poetry of the last half century more interesting. Brooks was born in 1917, the same year as Robert Lowell, who won the Pulitzer in 1947, three years before Brooks. When he passed in 1977 Lowell was considered one of the chief poets of the twentieth century. He taught both Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath. His family history could be traced back to the Mayflower.

As Robert Lowell is to Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath, Brooks is to several generations of poets. Brooks met with James Baldwin and many Black poets of the era in her living room. I wish there was a better record of her relationship with Sonia Sanchez, their chats about motherhood, poetry, Blackness, community. Sonia Sanchez published her debut, Homecoming, in 1969, the same year Lucille Clifton published her debut, Good Times. Audre Lorde published The First Cities, her debut, in 1968. Brooks was a central figure in the work of all three poets.
Terrance Hayes, Watch Your Language, pp 24-25

He notes, 
“She often goes unacknowledged the way caretakers and angels go unacknowledged.” 

Terrance Hayes’ writing sends me tumbling, makes me pause, reflect, and re-read. He makes me wonder about all the details that were left out of my schooling. I chase down my Gwendolyn Brooks poetry book and lose myself within. 

There is so much I was never taught. 
There is so much that was so dull about the way I was taught. 
There is so much more to learn. 

Why was I never challenged to question? 

I don’t know what to tell you.

Let me close with a poem I wrote yesterday for Ethical ELA, where Angie Braaten prompted us to write an elegy, with inspiration from Clint Smith's poem “Playground Elegy.” Honestly, I think all of my above rambles fed into this poem:

Textbook Elegy

The first time       I penned                  my name and date
in that       rectangle stamp       of the history textbook 
reading the     names of students     from years before 
I turned   quickly   to      chapter one,              devouring. 
Each   line      of text     so pure and real and insightful.
I studied every page and absorbed  great knowledge.
I looked forward      to the next year’s               textbook
revealing    so much                 more                 of the world.
It would be  years   before I noticed its     white space. 
I knew sanitized only from the bathroom.          I knew
sifted from cakes,                      left out from friendships,
omitted from   don’t say that      around mom and dad. 
I didn’t know                 what                              I didn’t know. 
I read with joy,                     absorbing believing trusting.
Now I wonder who   powers  every single line of text
and do students wonder about this and does anyone
know         what is not written.

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#SOL24-20 Create

Published on March 20, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

It is morning and I am seated by the window, writing into the day. I remember small moments of yesterday, follow a random thought into something new, and toy with poetry. He is seated at the piano, nearby, in the front room, creating soft melodies. He delves into songs he once knew well, finding these in weathered music books, concentrates on matching his hand placement to the notes, and begins practicing.

I love to write while he plays piano. There is something so soothing about the melodies he chooses, which are never intrusive to my thoughts, and simply alongside, freeing me.

I took over this chair by the window when I retired from teaching in June 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. Writing, writing, writing. Puzzling over poetry prompts, remembering something from childhood and trying to tease it out, trying to write a story from start to finish. Playing with words. I am convinced that writing has saved me from the most anxious parts of myself. I am reminded of the indigenous parable of ‘the wolf you feed’ where there is a battle of good and evil within oneself. (I like this synopsis by the artist Aida Muluneh.) For me, the battle is between being calm, present, and clear-thinking, versus anxious, worried, and terrified about the world. My morning writing sets me up for a better day, one less ridden with anxiety.

Tony, on the other hand, wakes up “doing.” He wakes up early, and gets going. He is always thinking about what needs fixing, what food we need to fetch at the grocery, who will be dropping by, and where we need to be at what time. First thing in the morning, he heads outside, to tinker in the garage or the yard. He might be up on a ladder, clearing the gutters of leaves and debris before the next storm, or digging up weeds along the front walk. He is a busy guy, and he keeps this house functioning, I am certain of it. I am so grateful for him. He finds what needs doing and he goes after it.

He and I both noticed, with the exception of sitting and toying with the keys alongside our granddaughters, he was never playing the piano.

He is also frustrated and anxious about this world and the direction it seems to be heading. We live in the Washington, D.C. suburbs, and we really have to work to NOT be immersed in all the ugly all the time. I think one big part of Tony’s getting caught up in small tasks is because he is stewing about the latest horrible news or worrying about a family member. Our efforts to make the world a better place seem so small and fruitless, and the problems so vast and daunting.

He loves to play the piano, and he was putting it last on his list.

So we set this fun new year’s intention: let’s both succumb to morning creative practice. A new routine was initiated: I write and he plays piano, and we strive for at least twenty minutes a morning, together but separate. On days when we are at home and we don’t have to babysit or rush out to an appointment, let’s put ‘play’ first, ahead of reading those headlines, ahead of all our to-do’s and worries. Some three months into the new year, our resolve to sit and play in our own fun creative way, is still going strong. We are often engaged in our pastimes for longer than the planned twenty minutes.

There seems to still be plenty of time to get to all our tasks.

It is amazing to me, to have time to play like this; I know it is a very precious gift of retirement. To spend time in such softness never felt possible during our careers, when morning meant the early morning alarm going off, rushing to get ready, to get the children ready, to get out, go, go, go. If I could turn back time, I’d do it differently, and make creative play a priority. Taking time to create is good for the mind, soul, and heart.

Writing has become a daily prayer for me – how I seek solace, how I lament, how I amend my ways, and how I find hope. I think Tony’s piano playing is a similar release.

The granddaughters love to tinker with the piano, too.

—

Keeping on this theme, I wrote a poem, thanks to inspiration by Shelley Martin-Young on today’s OpenWrite poetry at Ethical ELA

Release

with each year of living
comes pain of witnessing

the young husband 
who disappears 
declaring the marriage over

the teenager
found on the floor in the basement 
drowning in addiction and depression

the mom 
who starves herself as she
descends into suicidal darkness

the father 
who admits 
his life has been one big lie

the legacy of straw households 
wobbly built on secrets 
and judgment 
and hurt

days of helplessness
trying to breathe
needing hope

put pen to paper and let 
myself spiral 
just for a moment
let go

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#SOL24-13 Strands

Published on March 13, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

When my granddaughters play with Mardi Gras beads, the necklaces invariably get all tangled up together, into one big mash up of colorful plastic, where it is nearly impossible to find a beginning string or a way to separate them. The girls always bring the mess to me and sit right at my elbow as I struggle. There is no right way to approach the glob; any strand can be pulled out, in any order. When order is resumed, it is often mere minutes before the girls have tangled them up again. I’ve wondered if maybe this is the point of the girls’ play, to purposefully tie these chains up into each other, just to watch me fuss, taking them apart.

Yes, I hid the necklaces in a cabinet after one long morning of this “fun” recently.

Where to begin a short introductory story on Hilton Head Island and me? My many memories and reflections are similar to that knot of beads. I’m here and I’m lost in thought, trying to tease things apart.

Should I tell you how I first visited here when I was in grad school at the University of South Carolina, how my grandmother’s cousin had bought a home here on the ‘old, established’ part of the island, and she welcomed me for a weekend? I remember feeling so out of place, in this quiet, secluded, beautiful beach location. It felt far too fancy for me.

Is there a necklace strand for before the island’s development? What is the history of this place? Who were the indigenous peoples? Who were the Black slaves who worked the plantations?

There’s now a strand for the Gullah people, buried in the cemetery we happened upon, that I wrote about yesterday.

There’s another strand of necklace, with my parents retiring here, buying that cousin’s home, when she and her husband needed to move into assisted-living in their frail, elderly years. My parents had many happy years here, far from all five of their children/families, enjoying their independence and the beauty of this island.

Tony and I did make many happy spring break trips here with the boys, over the years.

Notice the strand, always present, of how uncomfortable I was that the community was “gated,” only for owners and their guests, and almost everyone was white.

There’s a strand where my parents encounter their own health crises, how Mom aged into dementia and Dad into Parkinson’s, a ten year period where we ‘kids’ made countless depressing trips to offer additional care. I lived closest to them, some ten hours north. Finally, my parents moved into assisted-living near my brother, in Maine. Oh, and then we had the ugly task of clearing out their home here and putting it up for sale, leaving us all a good bit soured on ‘life on the island.’

This week’s vacation features a strand where we pedaled by my parents’ old home and it’s been completely transformed and is now a rental property that we cannot afford to lease. All the beautiful landscaping that my father tended daily – well, that has been eliminated and replaced by a pool.

When our vacation week ends, I wonder if all these melancholy musings will be back up on a shelf, like those Mardi Gras necklaces.

starfish stranded
weeping for its ocean home
died alone
while all the tourists oohed and aahed
at their find

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#SOL24-12 Cemetery

Published on March 12, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

We are having an amazing trip to the beach, here in Hilton Head, South Carolina, enjoying long walks on the beach and easy bike rides along the leisure trails. Everything is so picture perfect.

Until I look a little closer.

Along the ocean’s bend 
a cemetery 
surrounded by condos and 
a golf course. 

Let me say that again.

A weathered old cemetery 
loved ones buried before
the Civil War
now 
consumed by
covered by
no, smothered by 
real estate money making vacation 
homes and fairways. 

A handful of headstones.
An historical marker: 

Braddock Point Cemetery

A Gullah cemetery.

Here’s a quote from that same website:

Located in Harbour Town, this small cemetery is the final resting place of the Chisolm and Williams families, descendants of enslaved West Africans who toiled on Braddock’s Point Plantation.
https://www.hiltonhead.com/sacred-cemeteries-in-sea-pines/

To see this juxtaposition, these solemn graves with the commercial giddy vibrance of everything else in sight, I can’t find the right words. I am absolutely appalled.

Please tell me how this came to be. Who signed off on this development? How is this not a high crime by some public official? A white collar crime by developers? Was anyone arrested for such disrespect? Around what conference table did the soulless make the decision to build here, exactly here?

Did ANYONE protest? Was it even debated? Did ANYONE speak up and say “I don’t think this is a good idea.”?

Truly, 
a sickening image of capitalism, 
of white supremacy, 
of I will do what I want to do, and 
you and your loved ones do not matter at all.

The cemetery continues to be maintained by descendents of the buried. This feels beautiful and right to me. Of course, the descendents had to fight for this privilege. They had to fight for the historical marker. They had to fight for the right to continue coming to this now gated part of the island to tend to the graves, to pray and remember. I wonder if they have to pay the $9 entrance fee at the gate, each time they visit?

We’ll be learning more about Gullah history on the island in the days to come. According to my initial research, over 100 people were buried here; less than 40 gravesites remain.

Here’s a 2023 article from the New York Times about Black cemeteries and the quest to preserve them, with this quote:

Washington provides little help. Late last year, Congress passed the African American Burial Grounds Preservation Act, which authorized $3 million for competitive grants to identify, research and preserve Black cemeteries. Congress has yet to appropriate even that.
New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/27/us/black-cemeteries.html

condos swallow slave graves
 body soul spirit cannot be erased
families hold in loving homage

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#SOL24-11 Beach

Published on March 11, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

We are on vacation at the beach in South Carolina and it is absolutely beautiful here. I offer you a taste of this magical setting through photos and haiku (writing format inspiration from Barb Edler’s post yesterday – thank you, Barb!).

gift of this day
waking to wisps of seagrass
sheltering our earth

dear sweet gull soaring 
along the lapping ocean
under striated sky

spring glides on a bike 
with a wild giddy whoosh 
across shifting sands

pelicans in flight
holding the ocean
together

water draws the sun 
into its bounteous arms
kissing the day farewell

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Back It Up

Published on January 23, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

Dear Lower Back,

I write this standing at the counter
since you refuse to let me sit down 
in my cozy chair
I am sorry that I ignored you
all this long time
I admit, I didn’t think about you
at all during these many good months
and that was so wrong of me
I know you are always there for me
supporting me, helping me, bearing with me
and I should have included you 
in all my other pursuits 

The last time things were dark and dirty 
between us
I recognized 
there is work I need to do on a regular basis
to focus on you, build you up, support you
we are together forever in this journey called life
takes two to tango

How long will it take me to learn this fully?
Not just when you get upset?

I know enough about apologies 
to recognize defensiveness and excuses
I want to be humbly apologetic, but . . .
couldn’t you give me a heads up that
I have abandoned you again?
(Just reading this, I see my ego, my self-absorption;
I apologize for this, too)
but . . .when I am in the throes of other ills
this is when you unleash your anger at me?
hurting me at my lowest
feels very calculated and controlling
from my view at the counter here

deep cleansing breath

let’s build on our relationship
I promise to do better by you
one step at a time
today forward
we are one

Love, me

I wrote this letter/poem of apology to my back just a few days ago, when things were falling apart. I have had a tough week, healthwise. After hoping to the contrary, I contracted Covid-19 after all, falling ill the day after last week’s SOL. I thought I had escaped the virus. Not to be.

This was my first time contracting the disease and I gotta say – I am not a fan. I have some low grade back issues, and I have been able to keep these in check through regular exercise. This past week, it was as if the virus settled right inside my lower back and held it in some sort of clench. I could not bend without excruciating pain. I moved with caution and trepidation. Shifting my body to get out of bed involved minutes of motor planning, thinking through my best approach. Sitting felt terrible.

Although my body was exhausted from the virus, I kept standing and walking around – ever so slowly. Vertical was the least painful position. Nothing was automatic anymore. Basic movements, such as putting on my socks or lifting my feet onto a footstool, were beyond my ability. Any surprise or unforeseen movement resulted in searing sensations that simply locked me up, immobilized. Here’s a challenge – try to sneeze or cough without moving unexpectedly. Here’s a second challenge – try to get through Covid-19 without sneezing or coughing.

I was a mess.

The pain was particularly acute during the first day or two, as I struggled with a fever. Then, the fever lifted, and the dagger-like pain in my back subsided substantially.

I reached out to my son who is, unfortunately, very informed about lower back pain, having lived with it since high school due to an injury. My text: What are the top five things you do for a lower back flare up? He wrote –

#1 Avoid the seated position. Sitting is the devil. Lie down on your back or stand whenever possible. (Of course, I was sitting when I read his response - only to stand back up, with a chuckle.)
#2 Walking is the best exercise. It loosens up the back.
#3 Assume the supine position with your knees up and feet on the floor. Tighten your core with your back braced against the ground. 
#4 Heed your Transverse Abdominal Muscles (TAs). Look up where those are and practice tightening them. Keep these tight.
#5 When all else fails, heat and ice!

I thanked my son for his helpful response, and he texted back – Of course! Happy to share about one of my few true areas of expertise. Lol.

I am living that expression “new lease on life.” Covid-19 is on its way out of my body; I feel better each day. I am back to my self-care basics – simple back exercises completed upon waking, before I leave my bed. The yoga mat is unfurled for daily conditioning. I am recommitted to my fitness and health goals – and I will move towards these with care. To a healthier back!

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Children First

Published on January 16, 2024

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

I feel great. Yes, I feel fine. Yes!

Each morning for the past couple of days, I wake up and instinctively check for how I am feeling. January has arrived with Covid racing through our family. First, it was the grandkids, who we had just babysat for two days straight. Then, everyone else has been getting sick, one-by-one, in rapid procession, testing positive for Covid. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven of us, so far? Knock on wood, I have escaped. Nevertheless, all plans have been canceled. Tony (not so lucky, enduring his second bout of this virus) and I have been having a very low-key time, taking it easy – working on a puzzle, watching television, and reading books. I’ve made a couple different homemade soups.

I just finished reading the memoir Class by Stephanie Land, a holiday gift from my son. Ms. Land shares the story of her struggles to get a writing degree as a poor and single mother. Throughout the book, I was on edge for her young daughter, growing up in such challenging circumstances. I have been stewing over this quote –

“Resilience as a virtue is assigned, especially to marginalized groups, when systemic structures have created countless barriers to living what the privileged consider a normal life.”
Stephanie Land , Class, pgs. 67-68

It is unusually cold here today, and expected to get colder. We have snow for the first time in a couple of years. My biggest challenge is willing myself to leave the proximity of my quilt and space heater in order to get another cup of hot tea. I am struck by the ease of Covid for me, for our family – and what an absolute crisis this virus or any health issue becomes for the poor.

If I were a single mom right now, 
with young children, 
without family around to help, 
with only hourly-wage work that offers no benefits,
struggling to pay bills,
unable to take time off,
already in debt…
holy smoke, this would be insufferable.

On our car trip to Georgia over winter break, we dashed into a fast food restaurant to use the bathroom. I noticed a young child, maybe three or four years old, in a booth by herself in the back corner, with coloring books and crayons; the child had a deep cough. “Mom” was an employee behind the counter; she rushed over to check on her child when there were no customers in the queue.

It is beyond appalling that our great country has no safety net in place (or only a very broken, torn, ripped safety net) for those who need it. The child poverty rate is nearly 15% in America. This is outrageous. This is appalling. This is criminal.

Did you read that many states are turning down food assistance for poor children during the summer months? As the Center for American Progress writes – Poverty is a policy choice. Here are their 12 solutions to eradicate poverty in America.

The world now has the means to end extreme poverty, 
we pray we will have the will. 
                                                                              (Source:  Rev. Barbara Crafton, 
                                                                              “The Counting Prayer”)

I needed to have a bit of levity in this post – here’s one of my favorite photos from teaching preschoolers.

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On Moving On

Published on December 19, 2023

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

It’s not easy to move in December. 

I suppose 
the month
doesn’t matter so much. 

It’s just not easy to move.

It is not easy to move 
from your home of 30-plus years 
where you raised your kids 
acquired, stored, and forgot about 
infinite treasures
filling every inch of space. 

No, this kind of move is not easy.

It’s not easy to move 
to a new home 
several states away
planning 
what you want to put on a truck
what you’ll need in the days (weeks?) 
in-between 
being in one place and next
waiting for your stuff to arrive.

No, it’s not easy.

It is not easy to do this 
alone 
all by yourself. 

Which is why 
I went to help.

I just returned 
from a very hard and successful week 
at my college bestie’s
‘old house’
where we worked non-stop

sorting packing wrapping boxing 
taping lifting loading re-doing 
squishing counting rushing 
tossing donating keeping

In a few more days 
she will have a new home 
here in Maryland 

she will live 
not only 
closer to me 
but to 
her daughter 
her sister and 
other family. 

It is a wonderful move - 
and not easy!

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Rekindled Joy

Published on November 21, 2023

It is Tuesday and time to write a 'Slice of Life." 
Thank you  Two Writing Teachers for creating this supportive community
of teacher-writers!

The biggest, grandest, happiest hug.

I was smiling ear to ear with anticipation when I heard her knock at the door, and then we just locked in and held one another.

It had been so long since we’d seen one another, much too long.

When I texted her Happy Birthday this year, I offered a few dates as well – please, please, please, let’s get together! How about you and your husband come to dinner at our house?

How to explain how year after year can go by without seeing a dear soul who lives less than 20 miles away? The Christmas cards, the phone calls, the texts simply weren’t cutting it for me anymore; time feels more and more precious.

As the chili stewed on the stove, I did a quick look through my photo boxes to see if I had any pictures of our time together. She squealed with delight at these treasures on the coffee table, and we started talking and sharing – laughing, crying, holding. Remembering.

She’s my ‘little sister.’

When I was 26 years old, I volunteered with a Washington, D.C. nonprofit, to befriend and mentor two little girls – let’s call them Audrey and Theta. When we first met, Audrey was nine years old and her younger sister Theta was seven years old. Their mother was a single parent, unemployed, and suffering from alcohol addiction; she was dearly loved by her eight children. An older brother (a Marine) put the family in touch with the nonprofit, seeking more stability and support for his siblings and Mom.

(I have not used real names, to protect their privacy and for ease in storytelling. Audrey means noble and strong, which seems so apropos. Theta is the Greek name for eight – and being the eighth child in her family, this name fits nicely, in my opinion.)

Picnic near the Jefferson Memorial, circa 1987

We would meet up on Tuesday afternoons and do all sorts of fun things: go for walks, visit museums, get ice cream, have a picnic, play board games, go to the zoo…countless small, sweet get-togethers. One really fun memory was when my roommate and I threw Audrey a birthday party – her first ever – when she turned 10. We had balloons, cake, and party games. Audrey invited four friends, and I got permission from their families for these youngsters to spend time at my apartment. We had such a great time!

The neighborhood where Audrey and Theta lived was really rough. I remember vividly how, the first couple of times I pulled up outside their apartment building, a couple guys rushed my car and offered to sell me drugs. I remember feeling a little scared and out of place. The third time and ever after, when I visited the neighborhood to pick up the girls for our special time together, these same two saw my car and bellowed from the street towards the apartments – “Audrey! Theta! Your friend is here to get you! Come down!!” I was recognized and trusted.

Our deep, regular connection lasted about two years. I got married and both girls came to my wedding. We continued to see each other frequently, though it was no longer weekly. One very special outing was when Tony and I took them to the Shenandoah mountains for a hiking adventure. By the time my third child was born and the girls were high school grads, we kept in touch but our visits with each other were much more rare.

Theta got involved in drugs as a teenager, and life spiraled in an ugly direction…and she died in her mid 20’s. It was a tragedy, truly devastating, to lose this precious person so young.

Audrey is doing so great. It was wonderful to be in her company this week, to hear about her full life. She and her husband are in their mid-40s now, married for twenty years, with two young adult children of their own. They have a storybook romance – meeting one another in middle school, becoming the best of friends, and they have been together ever since.

When I think about the poverty and addictions that surrounded her in childhood, her life today feels remarkable. She simply put one foot in front of the other, despite all. Her mother and five siblings have died, and Audrey is the matriarch of her family now, caring for and cherishing niblings and cousins.

At dinner, Audrey asked me,

How did you decide to do this volunteer work, way back then?

I’ve been puzzling on this question all week. I simply cannot remember what bit of magic led to this adventure. How did I hear about the nonprofit? Where did I get the idea? What I know for sure: I had a dry, dull job at a consulting firm where I trained Federal employees on how to use custom software – and I simply wanted more in my life. I had this gnawing desire for children – and no obvious path forward. I didn’t have a boyfriend or a special someone.

Yes, I decided to become a big sister, in order to have children in my life. One of the best decisions I have ever made!

Our dinner together was so awesome. We made plans to have dinner again early in the new year, this time with all our children, too. We are not going to let so much time pass again without seeing one another.

Until then, I will keep replaying our hug.

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