I’ve been a news junkie since the tender age of 6. That’s when, according to my mother, I’d come to them with news of the day. Startled, they’d snatch up

“Oh, my heart.” That’s what I thought when I read it, pressing a hand to my chest. There were sometimes no words; no syllables, vowels, or consonants to offer when

It happened at the grocery store. We were on a mission, The Mister and I, to bring home the bacon. And the milk and the cereal and the eggs and

Sitting ‘cross the table, two mugs placed just before, I’m telling a story. Of a mother, filled with fear. Of a long and difficult journey. Of the slow, sure steps

Christmas is over. The stockings that were hung ‘cross the bookcase with care have been pillaged. Plundered. Left dangling and limp by the villagers, names traced in glitter on each

It’s New Year’s Day. Mister comes in, man boots dropping snow on my kitchen floor. “Let’s go,” he says. And for once, I say it. “Yes. Let’s go.” Not in

The lights glow color, shed joy nestled among the needles on the tree in the corner. The boys are asleep, The Mister’s at the office, and it’s just The Friend

Standing there, I see it. At the end of the checkout lane, two rows of heartbreak stretch long across a bulletin board. Silent, I take it in. On every sheet,

I’d had to smile. On a day that went to the wrong place in a hand basket, he’d come home, spreading sun, grinning cheer. “How’d it go?” I’d ask him,

And isn’t that about it? “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.” Yes, that’s just about it, but not quite. What I’d like, actually, is for those