February 1st . . .
My eyelids flutter as sunshine comes into my room. I slowly open them, happy to see a break in the rain. Stretching I reach for my…
Thanksgiving . . . Italian style
Thanksgiving . . . my favorite holiday This year I will spend it far away from my family, my home, my country. Traditionally, my family cerebrates…
The nearness of you . . .
A light breeze blows through the kitchen of my uncles’ home, a little relief from the hot steam rising above the iron as I press a…
Letting go of pride . . .
Friday afternoon, school is clear of children and teachers. I sit at my desk assessing the neatly organized paper piles laid out before me. I could…
Finding hope in rock bottom . . .
I walk into the first grade classroom of my newest teacher, her first year. A black line drawing of a turtle, its shell a patchwork of…
Finding her way . . .
Surrounded by opened mail and neatly organized piles of bills and receipts, I sit cross legged on the turquoise sofa. My laptop rests on a pillow…
A mother’s hope . . .
There is a boy I love. I dreamed of him and what he would be before I ever met him, blonde and blue-eyed, smart and funny,…
Every four years . . .
My parents passed away eight years ago. Along with family and friends, my siblings and I celebrated their lives on February 29, 2008. Until that time, I had managed to…
Opie remembers . . .
A Midwest summer afternoon, the weather report promises a day hotter than yesterday and a good dose of humidity; I happily trade the breezes of southern…
Family ties . . .
My mom and I sit on her living room sofa. My son lay on a rug near our feet, first on his side and then rolling…
