A Thanks Giving Story

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She stood at the front door with the familiar holiday wreath. It had been five years. What to do? Knock? Ring? She turned the knob. The hallway was full of scarves, coats, boots; hanging on hooks, strewn across the floor. She stepped over them. At the dining room, she slumped against the door frame. Her mother was the first to notice. “Lily?” “Hey,” Lily said through a curtain of tears. Home. She finally made it home.

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Blue-plate Pears

Acrylic/Collage 30" x 40" SOLD Painting was purchased within 24 hours!!!! More to come. Watch this space.

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.

forgotten, confused

Her recollection was vague, faded. Had it ever happened? Possibly a dream, forgotten, confused. He looks at her. She should ask. Do you...? Did you...? His blink washes away a tear. She remembers.

Linda A. Lavid

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