Spending more time inside than ever. Restoring safe spaces. Painting, modernizing, repairing, Tools, paint brushes, construction projects. Purging, organizing, Putting everything in its place. Weeding out the unnecessary and outdated. Donating, trashing, recycling. Comfy chairs, mega-sized tv, electronics. Like squirrels, gathering and storing items that may become hard to find. Music, art, books, series on Prime or Netflix. Savoring favorite foods. All this, to compensate for the chaos, discord, and uncertainty in the world outside our doors, beyond our windows. Unexpected weather, fires, floods, hurricanes. We are seeking and needing tranquility, protection and security At home.
“I write for the challenge of describing experiences.” – the writer
I knew I was dreaming. I didn’t care much though. I was talking to her. She’d let me know it’s okay to go on with my life. She knew it felt like an impossible task on my part. It didn’t stop her from encouraging me to do so.
It’s been well over a year since she passed. She’d made a point to make good on her promise of haunting me after she died.
We continued walking along the beach, talking about the life she wanted me for me. One of happiness. One where I smile.
I know I was only eight, but I knew as soon as he left that Dad wasn’t coming back. There was this look in his eyes when he went. I didn’t mistake it for regret or remorse or anything like that. No, it was a picture of blind relief.
I glared at my confused mother as she stood in the kitchen holding his twenty-pack, asking me “What’s he gotta get more for?” I shrugged, then put the bin out for the first time and went to my room.
The next morning, I found that Mum had smoked every cigarette.
Snowy’s by the back door, set to leave. She really is the living end, but I need what she’s got. We’re having a face-off.
Cold white stuff’s falling from the sky. Snowy’s keen to explore, to embrace her nomenclature.
My Snow Day plan? I’ve bagged myself the ‘all-day’ boiler engineer slot. Besides, it’s peak TOTM – whatever the ads suggest, I’m just not sledge-ready. My salopettes are white. The entire world is white.
One step forward and Snowy is out that cat flap. She knows I’m after her dead mouse – aka the last damn tampon in my painstakingly ransacked flat.
Lucy Goldring writes to unleash her subconscious and because it’s cheaper than therapy. She thinks it’s magical that people might emotionally engage with her words.
Fearless, this pack sees me again on the dirt path. They huff and puff, snicker and snort, like the vulgar boys of my youth who clung to the chain-link fence disrupting my swim meet with their “Hey babe, my vanilla needs some caramel on top” and “Hey babe, ditch the suit!” But these dogs are far more cunning. They are the ruling street gang with their brindle fur and drone-worthy night vision. These dogs spurn my feckless gestures. They motion to each other a silent lexicon, but they don’t mess with me this time. They know I’ll be back again.
Renuka Raghavan writes because it is safer than running around and screaming all day. She’s the fiction book reviewer at Červená Barva Press, and is a poetry reader for the Lily Poetry Review. She is also a co-founder of the Poetry Sisters Collective.
No more lingering in the church hall after service. No more long afternoons of chitchat and laughter while she worked on quilts with the other ladies. No more book club, no more volunteer time at the hospital.
And Zoom meetings just weren’t cutting it.
She looked wistfully out the window, missing community. She missed the hugs, the shared moments, the warmth of others near.
The big old tabby cat jumped up and settled into her lap. She stroked his fur, feeling the rumble of his purr. Her heart filled with gratitude for the lone tender, loving friend she could touch.
Nancy Elliott walks, runs, hikes, looks up at the stars, dreams, loves, wonders, explores, and then words tumble out.