Telling Stories

Guidepost

Queen of HeavenThe path to the grotto, half-hidden by tall pines, is

Coming Clean

     Sitting at my mom’s well-worn oak dining table, I drink ice-cold sweet tea, and listen for the buzz of the clothes dryer. Yup.

Walking Home

In the twelfth year of my marriage something got lost. My husband Roger and I had a fight. It's futile to repeat what was said. Cruel, ugly words spilled out on both sides. My psyche felt like it had stayed out in the sun too long, defaced by blistered, oozing sores. Our bed, once an island oasis, was now as wide as the Gulf of Mexico, and each night I slept fitfully robed in grey flannel. We moved through our days in studied politeness. Emotionally abandoned and betrayed, for the first time I danced with the specter of divorce.

One Stone Stands Out

Three o'clock on this Memorial Day afternoon, I'm having a beer in the Queen of Hearts. It's a neighborhood bar across the street from the community center where Eugene and I used to go swimming three or four times a week. One time I even got him to take a yoga class with me, but since he was the only male in the class, he swore he'd never do it again. To be truthful, I used to think this bar was a strip club, and it's certainly not the kind of place I would normally frequent, but today is my Red Letter Day so anything is possible for me.

Moving Day

Sitting in the corner booth of the Old Town Diner, I've got today's paper spread out on the table and a yellow marker in hand – wanted, apartment for rent.  I'm on my third cup of coffee when Terry walks in. He sidles up and places an arm around my shoulders. “Whatcha doin', Ruby, my jewel? You’re just the person I’ve been wantin' to see.”

I heave a sigh in his direction. “Trying to find some place to live. I don’t think I can take another minute with my mother.”