Mirage

It is real in the mind yet an illusion in time

All visions of the past float along

A pool of mysterious clouds

They are true or unreal

You cannot tell a mirage from a mirror

 

Carrying fears or tears or rosy illusion

You look down at mountains and valleys

Big cities, small towns and remote villages

To find that lines of high-rises, harbors, rivers and bridges

Are all sitting on layers and layers of fantasy

 

If you see an elephant walking in the stormy ocean floor

And a whale swimming on the extreme hot and dry desert

You know for real that one day they will evolve special ways to survive

In the mirage, like us

S.P. Ma

Jan. 2021 

I Am the Songbird in the Wood

  

When the sky announces the first break of dawn

I happily wake up with my first morning song

I like to start with a slow and dull note

Then spark up a series of ascending notes swirling up the sky

Lingering and progressing into melodies short and long

Tuning the most beautiful sound all day long

Along with the humming of a flock of birds, insects and butterflies

Dancing slim and gracefully with white clouds and spring wind in the blue sky

As a choir of simple and cheerful spirits in the wild

We have so much fun singing together lively and loud

Joyfully kissing off stress and responsibility in our future life

S.P. Ma

Jan. 2021 

Mama's Kitchen

 

My grandparents were so predictable.  We followed the same script with the same secondary characters every time we were in Mama’s kitchen.  I had had enough, so when I tried to change it up a little my grandmother took me by the hand and sat me down with a cup of freshly brewed coffee and one of her savory pies. 

 That’s how easily she squelched my resistance to the status quo.  How many times had she done that over the years in her cozy kitchen?  By definition that was a rhetorical question.

 She’d lived through two world wars in Germany and had fed more than a few wealthier and better-educated relatives from Berlin, Frankfurt and Stuttgart who had lost husbands, brothers, sons, homes and had to be nurtured.  Her inheritance, these lands with animals and apple orchards, and the house that had a mill, produced eggs, cream, flour and food.   

 Fair trade coffee, you say.  Mama knew how to trade and barter with the best of them.  Berliners wouldn’t have been caught dead bargaining.  “That’s for farmers and laborers,” they said.  She knew they looked down on her while enjoying her tasty morsels and drinking her cow’s creamy milk. 

 “Her chickens lay delicious eggs.  Those apples are so crisp and sweet.  No wonder her pies come so good.”  No, she didn’t want credit or praise.  She wanted the war over and her children to be eating eggs and drinking milk instead of these people who had always looked down their noses at them.  “Eventually,” she said to her daughter, “we’ll be going to America and they’ll be wanting to come to us there too.”

 It should come as no surprise that after she served me in her kitchen, the one in Woodside, everything continued in full swing.  Others were joining me in savoring every bite and sip of warmth on the tongue and in the happy tummy full of contentment that saved my mouth from getting a foot stuck in it again.  Her prediction came true as well.  Many of those relatives did eventually make it to her kitchen in America and were amazed that she still laughed and sang while setting a table for them.

 

Yvonne A.

Jan. 2021

 

   

 

 

SWISS CHEESE

The Swiss Cheese had been a relic of the past long before any of the present staff of the castle had been born.  People said that it had been created along with the dark old castle when it was a young fresh fortress with pristine walls free of leaks, mold and moisture.

Now it was an old cheese, a sort of dairy heirloom, untouched by the staff and originally meant only for the consumption of royalty ,at their whim. This understanding had been overlooked by the extended family of mice who used the inner recesses of the white obelisk for snack time presumably having been kept out of the loop of proper cheese protocol. It had always been a quick meal ,somewhat stale but always available to a busy parent with many mouths to feed ,like a giant cylindrical twenty four hour convenience store with a large neon sign announcing FREE CHEESE!

Through this labyrinthine rubbery white maze of twisting turning tunnels ,Timothy ,a young mouse ,would run, jump and slide as the cheese reverberated, always finding a new pathway through the rubbery, smooth fromage to reach the other side of the cheese.Being a maze, trampoline and snack bar it provided both a playground, bouncy-castle, slide and nutritional staple for the young mouse and his many brothers, sisters and cousins.Mother always made sure he was neat and clean before venturing out on his adventurous forays, reminding him to watch out for Mr. Lump the cat whose sole purpose in life and solemn responsibility was to rid the castle of mice.Timothy had survived many close calls with the furry feline but each time his escape had been closer than previous encounters, as  Mr.Lump had memorized all the entrances and exits of the cheese, observing the mouse from the rafters as the mouse played in the elephantine fromage. For each entrance Mr. Lump knew which exit would be used.

One day Timothy ran to an exit in the cheese only to find it blocked by darkness, and stopped short before the threshold as the giant razor sharp teeth of the carnivore snapped shut, having incorrectly timed Timothy’s exit by a fraction of a second!

Timothy was shaken by this experience and he began to formulate a plan to rid himself of this rotund menace for once and for all!

The next morning Timothy put on his best running shoes and as he approached the cheese he pretended to be hurt, faking a limp, which should entice Mr. Lump to follow him for an easy meal. Limping across the floor to the cheese Timothy could feel the cat’s eyes following him across the smooth, cold stone floor. Suddenly he darted around the cheese and out the door, which was ajar, with  the cat in hot pursuit.Over the bridge, up the hill and into the forest looking back so as not to lose the cat.Sure enough Mr.Lump was not far behind adjusting to the sunlight and fresh air which he abhorred as well as the considerable strain on his heart which this sprint entailed.Timothy waited for him to catch up ,taunting the prodigious feline.As Mr. Limp charged up the hill and lunged at him Timothy jumped into a bramble and Mr.Lump leapt headlong into the bushes behind him.

In an instant Mr. Lump realized that he had acted in an imprudent fashion as the old bear trap snapped shut crushing the cat’s back and hind quarters. As Mr. Lump lay dying Timothy approached him as the light faded in his opponent’s eyes. Timothy felt relief, but also sadness for the loss of a formidable adversary.

Once news got out in the kingdom that Mr. Lump had perished due to the courage and strategy of Timothy ,he became a hero in  the mouse community and was thereafter generally avoided by cats in the kingdom ,taking different routes if they saw him coming .Timothy’s mother was relieved at the demise of Mr. Lump but wondered if the King might bring in a new younger, nastier cat with faster reflexes and sharper teeth, but at least for now they were safe to eat Swiss Cheese at their pleasure…

 

Jim

Jan. 2021

Fromage et Fruit

 

There I was in the capital of France, a skinny, wide-eyed, 18-year-old college sophomore, taking in the sights and sounds of Paris.  In required Art History I had studied the art and architecture of Europe. In the required foreign language program, I practiced spoken French and read great French literature. In required Music I heard the works of great composers and in required Contemporary Civilization I read the words of ancient and modern philosophers. All that book learning prepared me for the world l entered when I disembarked from my first plane ride and set foot in foreign country.  It gave me a framework on which to place each new edifice or painting, conversation or meal.

My sister Roberta and I shared this adventure to France together. She was my older, wiser companion by six years and had been to Europe after she graduated from college.  It was understood in our family that if we attended a city college (which only cost $14 a semester plus books and bus fare in 1968), we would be rewarded with a trip to Europe upon graduation. My trip came a little early because all of Roberta’s travel mates went off and got married.  If my sister, the French teacher, wanted a travel companion to visit her beloved France, the fellow sightseer would have to be me. Lucky me. Lucky us.

We were fortunate, in addition, to know people in the country. We had met our older French cousins, Rosa and Schmiel, when they had visited the United States a few years previously. Schmiel walked the French way with his hands behind his back or else with an urbane walking stick. Rosa had the understated elegance of an older French woman with the lovely smile of a Renoir girl. They had escaped to France during the Holocaust, so beneath their welcoming, open demeaners lay the bruise of their wartime experience in German-occupied France. Their daughter Renee, a Sorbonne professor, and husband Michel, a dentist, reflected the success and assimilation of the next generation. We were invited to their home for dinner and met their little son Philippe who was fascinated that the two strangers in front of him came all the way from the United States of America. This was many years before the internet or zoom, so anyone from faraway was considered strange and exotic.

I don’t remember everything we were served at dinner, but I do remember one course in particular:  fruit and cheese at the end of the meal. Neither my sister nor I had been brought up on imported cheeses. The most exotic cheese in our refrigerator was bright orange American or white, large-curd cottage cheese. We declined the slightly odorous fromage placed in front of us, but reached out enthusiastically for the fresh apricots and peaches. We nonchalantly bit directly into the delicious flesh of the fruit. There was a silent pause around the table. Shocked faces all around. “Ah,” my cousin, mirthfully explained to his son, “They come from America, where there are cowboys and Indians and savages. These people do not eat cheese and they don’t know how to eat their fruit with a knife and fork.” I returned to the United States, and on occasion, consume cubes of French or Italian cheese and daintily cut my fruit with silver utensils. Despite the touches of sophistication I have acquired on my travels, I will always remain “une sauvage americaine.”

“Bon appetit mes amis.” Eat your fruit and cheese, and eat it heartily and well.

 

Marsha Hoffer

1.29.21

A Bit of Old Cheese

 

        I was still thinking about cheese, and so I was inevitably hurled back to that summer day when I was five and my mother, in response to my question, "What's for lunch, Mom?" said, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, "A Cheese Surprise".

        A cheese surprise!  My mind reeled.  And I could not then stop wondering what on earth this wondrous new dish could be, for at that innocent time of my life I loved surprises and lunch with equal ardor.

        It turned out to be a grilled cheese sandwich.  No doubt it was made with Kraft "American cheese", which I suspect the French, who have the last word on the subject, don't really regard as cheese at all, but which was a food staple in American households like ours in the 1950s.  But what was the "surprise" aspect of this new lunch offering?  Perhaps it was the fact that my mother  was acquainting me for the first time with this type of sandwich.  Or perhaps she had in mind the surprisingly sensual and delightful texture that certain cheeses acquire when melted,-- surely something even ancient peoples discovered shortly after they invented cheese, but which my five-year old self was now in the process of newly discovering. 

        Grilled cheese sandwiches served at home were henceforth referred to as "cheese surprise", even long after they ceased to be surprising.  Still, the name never ceased to charm me.  I've yet to encounter it on any restaurant menu, and perhaps this is why grilled cheese sandwiches served in such establishments seem to me to be rather flat and boring, lacking the zing of  those dished up by my young mother.  But wasn't it a wonderful gift she had, -- she who could make a glory of the most commonplace thing simply by giving it a new and quixotic name!

Maxine F.

Jan. 27, 2021

Poppa

 

Dear Poppa:

      I am asked why I have written many stories about my relationship with Momma, but nothing about you. I explained since Momma lived to the age of 93, my relationship with her extended from infancy, childhood, teenager, young and middle age adult even approaching old age, I really got to know her. You passed away at the age of 52 when I was a young teenager. In addition, I was born on January 17, 1928 the youngest of your five children. In 1929 you were faced with a terrible economic depression that lasted into the 1930s. There was much unemployment and you were faced with the difficulty of taking care of a wife and five small children. It made sense you were unable to have a relationship with me. When the depression ended at the end of the 1930s and in the early 1940s two of your sons were drafted into the army, you then developed a colonoscopy problem requiring surgery. 

      I was unaware your medical problem would shortly be fatal. There were a couple of things I did that still upset me. I remember visiting you in the Kings County Hospital shortly after your surgery, telling you I got a part time job after school hours, thinking that would please you. I now think that was wrong, because it could be saying you were unable to give me an allowance. I should have known a Yiddish expression “To be poor is not disgraceful”.  I also recall after you were home, not knowing you would shortly pass away I complained I had only one pair of pants and was embarrassed to go anywhere. That was a terrible thing for me to do and I beg for your forgiveness. 

      Momma lived long enough so I and the other children were able to give her some segments of the American Dream, none of which ever able to land in your lap. Frieda was your first born and you did not want her brought up in the terrible lower East Side of Manhattan. Your sister Mary lived in a place called Middle Village in Queens that was still surrounded by farmland and you arranged to move there, where we all grew up and thank you. Frieda with much justification was your favorite child, and we are grateful you were still alive in September 1939 to attend her wedding to Archie and in the early 1940s to know their children Jeffrey and Larry. I recall that with your sewing ability, you made a beautiful blue coat for small Jeffrey.

      You would have been happy with all your in-laws and grand and great grandchildren. Someday I shall write a story introducing all of them, but in this writing, I shall refer to my two children. My son Chaim (Carl) named after you, became and is an important contribution to society. Equally important is my daughter Emily who is the C.E.O. of the Massachusetts Service Alliance, that is a unique resource for local organizations and its citizens working to better their communities. I am sure Carl and Emily are grateful for inheriting some of your DNA.

      If we ever meet again, it will be with a hug and kiss and the beginning of the relationship we missed. Please forgive me if there be some stains on this writing. They were caused by the release of long held back tears.

 

Love and miss you.

 

Moishe a/k/a Ben

 

January 2021

To Dream or Not to Dream

 

What is the impact of a dream when it takes place in a location you know? I can definitely answer that one because my dream visited me when I was in middle school. To this day, I still remember it vividly even though over fifty years have passed.  My dream took place in the actual apartment my family and I lived.  This is what transpired…

I got home from school to find the apartment empty.  Now, that was a real treat for me because with having so many family members, everything had to be shared, even down to the sleeping arrangements.  I sat down on the Castro Convertible pull out bed in the living room and let out a big yawn. With a big smile on my face, I put my head down on the pillow. Then I took off my shoes and put my feet up on the bed.

Everything was going so right but then everything went so wrong.  I never remembered dozing off and then falling into a deep sleep.  That’s when the scariest dream ever happened to me!

I was on the bed, lying on my back when suddenly an adult human leg started forming on the ceiling above me.  It took shape like a large piece of clay being molded and then it dropped from the ceiling like wax being dripped downward from a candle.  This was a terrifying human leg.  The skin on the leg was as white as milk and the hairs were dark black and very coarse, just like a large ball of steel wool. The leg was severed at the hip.   There wasn’t blood anywhere but where the leg was severed, you could see deep red and pink flesh with the leg bone set in the center.

I froze in terror for a few seconds, then screamed and jumped up from the bed. As I stood at one side of the bed, the leg stood at the other side of the bed. I started screaming again and started running around the apartment with the leg chasing close behind me. Soon, one leg would be faster than my two and I would be trampled to death.

All of a sudden, I heard a door slam shut. I started hearing my mother’s and sister’s voices.  They were talking loudly to each other. I woke up. The leg was gone. My heart was pounding and I felt beyond terrified. Suddenly I felt a small bit of relief! I realized I had fallen asleep and the horrible human leg was just a dream. I couldn’t help but think of how real the dream seemed especially that it took place in my apartment. I tried to calm my overwhelming feeling of fear by telling myself it was only a dream, or was it??

Ellen G.

Jan. 2021

Chatting with Bill & Bob

 

“Hey, Bob, how is it going?” Bill peeped.

“Haven’t seen you in a while. How is Mavis and the little ones?” Bob asked.

“All well, thank goodness,” Bill said. “We’ve been busy packing up the nest and the brood, getting ready to go to our summer place down south. How about you and your family?” 

“All fine, Angela is good, having a small problem with the youngest, he’s having issues in leaving the nest. But otherwise, we are all good,” Bob replied.

“Ready for the big flight?” Bill inquired.

“Well, I hear that there is some bad weather in Florida so Mavis and the little ones will stay over in North Carolina for a few days, before we navigate any further. It’s a long trip to South America. The bad weather just knocks out my internal compass.  If I can’t see Orion I don’t know where the heck I am,” Bob stated.

“I hear you, I have the same problem, when bad weather covers the sky you can’t see nothing. I’m afraid that we’ll end up out west and then what. Navigation is unbearable when I can’t see the stars,” Bill said, as he looked up toward the sky.

Bob then looked up.  “Yep, nice and clear I can see Orion. Oh, look there goes a shooting star. Good night for an evening of flying around the forest.”

“Wow haven’t seen one of those in quite some time. So how is your nest these days, I just did some repairs from the last down pour. It took off some twigs on the side. I had to replace them. Found nice fresh leaves and blades of grass that help keep it all together,” Bill chirped.   

  “I had to make an extension, since the little one is having a hard time leaving the nest. Not that we are encouraging him to stay but it gets a little cramped considering he is grown, he’s no baby bird anymore,” Bob remarked.

“Awh, let him stay, when he’s ready he’ll get out and fly. My oldest one comes and visits and stays over for a few days. It’s nice to see him from time to time.  It could be worse, look at Ben and Barbara, they’re empty nesters.  Bobo couldn’t wait to get out of the nest he flies all over the place, they never see him,” Bill said.

“I know, I’m not complaining, just a little concerned, that’s all. Hey, have you been by the Farrells Farm? They have some really good grass seed, you should fly on over and pick some up for the family before the grass starts to grow,” Bob indicated.

“No, I haven’t flown that way for a while, thanks I will swoop by tomorrow,” Bill replied.

“So, when are you leaving?”

“Saturday after next week. Getting out of town before that first frost hits,” Bill said.

“We are leaving the Monday after next week, right after dusk. Night flying is always the best,” Bob chirped.

“Our family likes to leave a little early, so we get a head start and we do some sing a longs, "All Night" Long by Lionel Lark just to pass the time as we head down south.”

“We do too, it’s so many miles it keeps us occupied and makes the trip go faster. Where are you going this year?” Bob asked.

“Our usual place in Azul.  We stay at a nice country club where they have beautiful grounds. And you, where will you be staying?”

“We wanted to go somewhere different this time, we were staying in Rosario. We’re not too far from you guys, we should visit,” Bob said.

“Yes, please stop by any time,” Bill replied.

 

“At the Plaza San Martin, it’s a little busy but at night it’s very quiet. Thought we would give it a whirl, see how we like it,” Bill chirped.

“Alrighty!  Time to get going.  Angela is making dinner, fried worms with some sunflower seeds,” Bob said.

“Bona Appetit! See you down south and don’t forget to stop by.  See you then.” Bill flew off as Bob followed. 

 

Lisa B.

Jan.2021

Cheese

 

No one really knows when cheese was first made. Archeologists have found the chemical remains of cheese as far back at 7200 years in Europe and Egypt.  

In the past 100 years mass production of cheese especially in the United States which made cheese more affordable and accessible to everyone.  

On the backs of many generations, I decided to celebrate cheese.  

Let’s speed up to today, in my house, making a cheese party, fondue with Brie, gorgonzola, gouda, camembert, assorted cheese platter with provolone, Havarti, Colby, Bleu d’Auvergne and Pont-Lévesque, hot and steamy mac and cheese with smoked paprika, cream cheese petit fours with cucumber, cheese pastry puffs, French fires smothered in American cheese and for dessert Ricotta Italian Cheese cake. For a sweet drink, Cheese Tea, yes this is a real drink.  

My seventeen guests arrived, after some small talk the scent of the cheeses made our stomachs growl with hunger. The buffet was set and a line swiftly formed.  

Charlie the green cheese monster filled every centimeter of his plate. 

Ginger the orange cat preferred the petit fours and left out the cucumber.  

Mrs. Gregor the tabby cat with her brood of 7 kittens held their plates tightly and took lots of mac and cheese.  

Boo the goat was in the mood for Bleu d’Auvergne with some Cheese Tea. 

Brenda the mouse needed help up to the table from Rona the dog and each filled up on French fries smothered with American cheese and Havarti cheese.  

Harold the snake slithered up the table leg and balanced the plate on his tail as he gently placed gooey fondue of Brie and camembert quietly hissing as he politely moved along the table.  

Monkey showed up with his red Fez hat and took a little bit of everything.  

Brown Bear likes dessert first to she took a slice of Italian Ricotta cake and some Pont-Lévesque.  

Coco the duck quacked at the delicious provolone and cheese pastry puffs. 

And I tried everything, after all I am the cook and I can do that.  

As we savored our cheeses, we talked about how the Moon is made of cheese, stinky feet cheese and dangerous cheese with maggots in it and we laughed and burped and danced in celebration of cheese and friendship.  

As our party winded down we all agreed “Cheese makes us happy”. As a parting surprise gift, I gave everyone cheese bread as a reminder of our wonderful party.  

Charlie the green monster thanked me profusely, 

Ginger the cat meowed her thanks. 

Mrs. Gregor and her 7 kittens bowed and left gracefully. 

Boo the goat bellowed and tilted his head up and down in gratitude. 

Brenda the mouse waved goodbye as she mounted the back of barking Rona with smiles on their faces exited the door. 

Harold the snake coiled and sprang into my arms and hugged me Au revoir, 

Monkey’s red Fez hat was filled with left over cheese; he shook my hand and kissed my feet. 

Brown Bear with her sweet brown eyes, curtsied bowed. 

Coco the duck quacked and waddled and waved her wing bye as she cruised out the door.  

With a great big swing of my arm and hand I bid them adieu, so long, sayonara, bye-bye and good night, until next time we meet dear good friends, cheese and good times.

 

Georgia P.

1.24.21

Nightmares

 

Our thirty sixth president, Lyndon B. Johnson and his family are coming to my house for dinner and I have forgotten to defrost the twenty pound turkey. A recurring dream.

My married life continues to involve issues with food preparation, so to have such a haunting dream is not beyond the realm of possibilities. Ben was a fussy eater. I was always phoning his sister Frieda or my mother-in-law to ask what and how to make the brisket, potato kugel or matzah brie. My mother was a terrible cook. She could bake marvelous strudel and pies but her everyday dinners were pathetic. She really only cared about feeding my tyrannical father, so every night she served him the same dinner meal of gedempte fleysch (potted or stewed meat) with potatoes, sour pickles from Joe’s and a glass of seltzer. Yes, I do remember being served peas and carrots from a can and the Monday night ritual meal of mashed spinach and potatoes. So, I did not bring great culinary skills to wedlock, Settlement Cookbook was a help but mostly it was Frieda or my mother-in-law to advise me.

As a young couple, dinner parties were the style of our social life. We had a lovely and interesting set of couple friends and we all took turns with dinner invitations. These dinner parties became more and more elaborate. It reached a point where it was a competition to outdo the last invite. Suddenly I was setting a table with my hand embroidered tablecloth, matching napkins, sterling candlesticks, Rosenthal gold rimmed dishes, Waterford crystal stemware, and sterling silver flatware. Two burning candles added to the splendor. But what to cook for the dinner party? Irene had made her dinner with an all Chinese food theme (home cooked, not ordered in). Martha chose an all Italian theme and served scrumptious chicken parmesan. Jacky did the veal francaise with a rice pilaf side dish. Janice beat me to the cheese blintze casserole. What would I serve? Food preparation for my husband. Food preparation for my friends. Food preparation became my wide-awake nightmare.

I don’t need a psychotherapist to interpret my recurring nightmares. President Lyndon B. Johnson and family are coming to my Thanksgiving dinner and I have forgotten to defrost the twenty pound turkey. I wake up in a panic!!!

 

Ethyl Haber

January 2021

No Man's Land

 

High above the low lying clouds I stand breathing in the misty fog and expelling it unchanged. Unaware of the means of my arrival, I am here nonetheless. I stand chilled to the bone atop the silent ooze of misty clouds within which the jagged tips of forgotten peaks protrude through this withered, windy, precipitous precipitation in a watery, grey unforgiving land. Sloshing and stumbling downwards through the mud, enveloped in fog, I come upon a round sphere which upon cleaning reveals itself to be a crystal and illuminating itself at my touch shows a vision of myself safe and comfortable, fast asleep in my bed.

 

Jim

Jan. 2021

** Photo courtesy of Steve Fisher**

Dreams

The alarm went off while I was deeply, heavily asleep. My dreams were all over the place but the last one was so real that when the alarm sounded, I was so off balance I knocked the lamp off the table.  

I lay there still in the dream; it was my father and his female friend Terry. Terry died years ago, my father died more recently. I saw them sitting at an old-fashioned aluminum rimmed kitchen table. Terry’s back was towards the wall as if she was sitting on a bench type of seat and my father was sitting on the other side on an old kitchen chair.  

My father realized he made a mistake by leaving me out of his will when he died. He told me he was truly sorry,  got up from his seat and said, “Let’s fix this.”  

He walked towards me and the encounter was so real that I actually expected by some miracle that he would magically include me in his will; maybe the lawyers would find a loophole or law that would put me right in the will, legally and binding.  

There I am still lying on the bed barely able to get up. I dragged myself off the bed hopeful the dream was a prediction. Needless to say, this dream was no prediction, it was a wish, a deep longing of a father doing the right thing for the first time for his daughter but inclusion was never an option. 

After the deep pain that there was no changing the will and there is no chance of me being included, I realized that my children are the recipients of this sizable inheritance. My father underestimated the powerful relationship I have with my children; out of their cuts each of my children asked if I needed anything. Of course, I did, and within reason I got everything I would have gotten even if I was included in the paperwork of his will.  

Did my father have any negative influence in stopping my participation in receiving some goods? Not at all.  It was no secret he was a miserable human being. He lived and died miserable and mean and cruel.  

What he didn’t realize is that love wins. 

My father had no clue what real love between a parent and a child is. I do and I am truly very lucky to have that precious love of my children and a few extra goodies my kids so graciously gifted to me.  

   

 Georgia P.

1.17.21

Memoir of a Dream, Or, The Paradox of Not Knowing, Yet Knowing

I

 I wandered in an arctic land beneath an all-embracing sky

That seemed to hug the earth and me so fondly and so tenderly

The wind began to sigh.

 

II

 

And in this desert white with snow and mesmerizing liquid light

I made my solitary way, -- open to the come-what-may

While savoring delight.

 

III

 

And yet I knew not whence I'd come, nor where my path was bound,

Only that I had a date with some unknown, elusive fate

Still waiting to be found.

 

IV

 

And so with deep-felt expectation I passed a glad and glorious day

With sun and sky and wind conversing, finding the faith to keep traversing

That world of far-away.

 

V

 

The wind was full of whispered thoughts, though what these were I did not know.

The sky had turned a pearly white as daytime tip-toed into night

With softly falling snow.

 

VI

 

Cloaked in coldness I carried on; the chatty wind soon settled down.

But why, I wondered, this sudden bliss? Then --- through the mist, with the thrill of a kiss

I beheld that jewel of a town!

 

VII

 

I followed my feet and turned down a street where the houses all sang of the past.

Before one I stopped without knowing why, but compelled by a force I couldn't deny

I knocked on the door at last.

 

VIII

 

The strangers within gently beckoned me in, and strangely this was no surprise.

Their welcoming voices tinkled with glee and though it was dim, I clearly could see

The love-light that shone in their eyes.

 

IX

 

How could I have known they expected me here?

How could I have known that I needed to roam to the ends of the earth

Where the sky seemed to curve, where the wind spoke in whispers and the light had such verve

To find myself ... at Home!

                                                                                   

Maxine Fisher