Wednesday:  By now, mother needs mocha or she will high-center on fabled mid-week hump and will never make it over.  En route to purchasing her “therapy in a cup,” she

I may have sniffed, flipping one shoulder up with a dismissive wave of the hand.  “But what if I can’t anymore?  Maybe…maybe I’ll quit.”  He shot me a look.  I

Jesus in skin, receiving the needy, a line of humanity bedraggled stretching before him.  There, the woman bent with an issue of blood that had kept her weak.  Behind her,

I recalled the message we’d gotten just days before.  “Did you hear the bad news?  He was killed.”  I felt again the shock, the disbelief.  “Oh, no.  Not him.”

We’d called my mother to say, “Happy birthday.”  Boy Two (aka Kid Kaboom) was singing a seriously goofy, nasal-ly version on a phone upstairs; I was cackling into the phone

In reality, it was a blessing for the Hoodlum Mentioned Above.  It was a redemption of sorts for him.  You see, the first year we ever got a tree, he

I stop.  And think.  In a split second, this-this-and-that rush through my mind, things that aren’t finished yet or tied neatly with a bow. I stop and think and then

That’s what it said on the box that held the onion rings.  Sitting there at the local Dairy Queen last night post Boy Three’s Christmas program, I laughed.  Reading it