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blackberry tea

Unremembered, blotted out, lost in the tick-tock of time, in an old trunk, in a dusty attic, was a picture, resurrected, refurbished, recolored, into a label for Aunt Daisy's Resilient Blackberry Tea

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A Valentine Story

She received a valentine once in the second grade, a pretty card of two Dutch children, signed Larry. Larry lived two blocks after hers. They kinda walked home together. He mostly ran around trees, jumped on porches, pretending to be a super hero. She saved her valentine in a cigar box with a chestnut, some marbles, and a 7 Up bottle cap., After fifty years, she thinks about energy, DNA, and the odds of Larry landing on the moon or in prison.

cracked egg

The year she stopped eating and working and talking, she devolved, draping cloth over mirrors, not brushing her teeth. 
She went from Emily Dickinson to Sylvia Plath to Anne Sexton, reading their work over and over, copying their words.
A day came. She reached for a pencil... cracked egg, hot griddle. 
Her first poem filled two pages. She now eats oatmeal and wanton soup from the Chinese restaurant.

ready to run reckless

He saw her but didn't let on. First from the corner of his eye, then shamelessly. He imagined how she might be, holding his hand, traveling the rails, then late at night in a motel with red marquee light playing along the side of her face, her body in light and shadow.

She turned. It was the boy from chemistry class, the dreamer who mostly looked out the window. Their gaze connected, lingered. Suddenly, she felt skittish, a racehorse in the starting gate, her heart bursting, ready to run reckless.

look at me

Look at me. What do you see? Don't be hateful or worse--turn your eyes away. If you're lost for words, allow me to introduce myself.
I'm a phoenix breaking from the burning embers, rising with the ash. The boundless distances I've traveled were wrought with lessons, many ignored, luckily not all. There were times I was brave when I stayed; cowardly when I left. I've dealt out abuse, lies, excuses and overdrew on second, third, fourth chances. I forgave myself when no else did. Still, I stand in grace with love in my heart and an outstretched hand.
Look at me. Who do you see?

a winter's night in full moon

Her mother disliked purple (cloying, base, a whore's color) and slumping, slovenly girls with thick ankles who showed no interest in ballet. Secretly, the daughter adored purple, the deep velvety kind, like dark chocolate on the tongue, like a winter's night in full moon.
Years later and no longer a dancer, the daughter gave her mother a painting. “What is this garbage?” “Mother,” the daughter said, “it's release.”

until a bird

She couldn't stop her mind from racing. The bourbon didn't help. Neither did the walking, the pacing, the twitching of her foot when she sat still. It was hard to begin, to fill the blank page, to glue and paint and rub. It was easy to wish she had never started. Until...a bird appeared. She gave it eyes and wings. It gave her hope.