I tried my hand at samurai sword fighting, learned how to surf on water and volcanic ash. Well, actually I chickened out on the volcano surfing.
Category Archives: Memoir
Nineteen years later
This poem is dedicated to
my mother Lucy,
who lives forever in my heart.
I really want to sing live, again. Yes this is me admitting to all of you that I sang live once to an audience of 750 co-workers. It was thrilling and nerve-wracking, and almost as scary as my first time performing burlesque (we’ll save that for another day). Every once in awhile my desire toContinue reading
The young girl I used to be
Sunday, September 30 — 9:00 AM This day has been 9 months in the making. And as I sit here listening to the waterfall fountain at our Bangkok resort, I can’t help but wonder how did this small town Brooklynite get here. Small town Brooklyn may sound like an oxymoron to some but I cameContinue reading “The young girl I used to be”
remembering mama
I strongly suspect Mom single-handedly supported Hallmark during the late 70s and 80s.
The Greatest Life is the One You Choose to Live
Life and death anniversaries have become my totems.
sabers and memory
I’m hopeful the salesman is also hawking imagination, too.
the bittersweet truth of my sorrow
i almost forgot. but then, on the way home from a late yoga class, crossing the street admiring the barren trees casting shadows on the sidewalk everything flooded back. i remembered it was this night. i wish i could tell my friends, those who are just now experiencing the loss of a parent that every yearContinue reading “the bittersweet truth of my sorrow”
some old, some new traditions
2017 marks a year of change, new traditions for Christmas. I spend the days after the longest head cold ever, preparing Sicilian sweets, an assortment of cookies, and freshly, baked bread. On Christmas Eve, after dinner with new friends, I add an old tradition started with my Dad. We would stay up to watch It’sContinue reading “some old, some new traditions”
The smell of Christmas is in the air
The layout of the house imprints itself on my memory.
modern vintage ink 