And that is what we got – an outpouring of essays, fiction, poetry, all of impeccable literary caliber – writings that are evocative, insistent, occasionally beautiful, often witty, and always readable.

We will let the works speak for themselves.  We have only one small morsel of advice to offer: Listen!

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

After a few days of unusual behavior, that is, Micky and I not seeing or talking to each other, I went to her house. We gossiped about that night’s happenings. I gave her a detailed description of how Dean had “quit” me. On the other side of the basement, she told me, Rob had “quit” her, too. It was no coincidence they used the same line: “I need my freedom.” The break-ups were planned.

For a time, things went back to normal for us; the way things had been since third grade. We grieved together. Just us girls. No boys. No complications. We started to feel like our former, naive, happy selves. Eventually, our girl-talk was no longer interrupted by sighs. We breathed with less effort and pain. Life was beginning to be worth living again.

During one of our chats, the telephone rang. As she spoke, Micky’s face ignited. She didn’t have to tell me it was Rob. But her hope quickly turned to dismay as she turned and whispered, “He wants your phone number. Should I give it to him?”

Every teen magazine advised real girlfriends never date their best friend’s ex-boyfriend. The recommended response to this kind of question was a quick, emphatic, and unequivocal “No.” But without thought or hesitation what came out of my mouth was, “Yeah, okay, go ‘head.”

Not many days later Rob called me. He and I would go on to date, marry, have two children, move out-of-state twice, and eventually divorce.

Micky and I hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since that day. During a round of post-divorce self-examination, I wrote a letter of apology to my wronged ex-BFF and included my phone number. I sent it to the scene of the crime. Micky’s mother forwarded the letter. Micky called. I got to the point quickly so I wouldn’t have to deal with any dead air. “I want to apologize. I didn’t act like a real friend the day I said it was okay to give Rob my phone number. I’m sorry.” I told her Rob and I divorced, thinking she’d forgive my lapse in judgment. Not! Apparently, what happened to my marriage and our friendship was old news. All that remained was a heavy silence on her end of our one-sided conversation. Succumbing to the pressure of the silence, I rattled off a quick “Well, okay. Thanks for calling me. Bye.”

It was then I realized that I’d read the teen magazine advice, but hadn’t heard, listened or heeded it.

That day in the spring of 1969 I traded my best friend for a husband-to-be who, seemingly in the blink of an eye, became an ex. Comeuppance? I think poetic justice.
 

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

I didn’t know it was our last night together. That night, a mild October Friday in 2010, the Hudson Valley village where I grew up was settled into the sober peace of a place where nothing much happened. I was spending the day with my father; my mother was in the hospital because she had fallen back hard on her head. TBI – traumatic brain injury, they called it. At first, we weren’t sure she would make it.

But as she slowly started to recover – to recognize us, to talk about making coffee, to chat quietly with her minister – my father seemed to get worse. He was a ball of anxiety. At the hospital, he chastised anyone he could about the exorbitant fees in the parking garage. He scolded the nurses who brought my mother the wrong meal, even though she was too groggy to care what she ate. Once, back at the house, I caught him sobbing in the kitchen. I had never seen him cry before. “We won’t be able to go on trips anymore,” he said.

On our last night, I told him I wanted to go see my brother, who lived just up the street. “Take a flashlight,” he insisted. “It’s too dark.”

“Dad. It’s just a block. I can see.”

I know he was trying to control all those little things that were slipping from his grasp. Take the flashlight, heal your mother, be careful. Be careful.

I grabbed the flashlight and headed out the door. The minute I got past the driveway and across the street, I turned off the light. The stars overhead were so brilliant that I walked the block with my neck craned up, marveling. The stars felt like a shield, protective – my reward for not listening.

I really wanted to stay at my brother’s house, watching the Yankees fight their way through a tough playoff series. But I stayed only an inning or so. I felt guilty leaving Dad by himself in the house. Also, I wanted to walk back under the stars, in the joyous, sparkling dark. The canopy over my head felt like a blessing.

I switched the flashlight back on as I got closer to the house. I was the oldest of four children, the one most like him in our combative, combustive personalities. Some of our fights were so terrible I’ve blocked them from my memory. I don’t remember another time when it was just the two of us alone together.

That night, the Yankees won, and I cheered, probably a little too loudly for his taste. Maybe he realized I hadn’t listened to his advice. Maybe he knew that I felt the shield of his care anyway.

A week later he was gone. It had all been too much for his brilliant, complicated heart. It turned out that none of us had been listening to the right clues.

“She always called herself a badass.” Grace smoothed the crumpled program and stared at the vital information as if she had not written it herself: Carolyn Jane Donohue, known to friends as Carry, 1952-2024.

The word “badass” echoed in the quiet air of the large church, filled only with the aroma of the roses on the alter and the faint scent of furniture polish.

The janitor nodded. Not the first time that someone had confided in him. He was like a piece of equipment in the church. Silent until called upon. He absorbed what was thrown his way much like the mop he used to clean the bathrooms.

“Oh, I know that it was all an act, underneath she didn’t really mean any harm. She was just firm in her opinions and thought everyone should know them.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He swiped his broom under the pews, trying to find a bit of dirt that might have been tracked in by the sparse congregation. This nice lady had insisted on staying to help him clean up, so he had to do something that looked productive.

Grace added the crumpled program to the stack on the table by the door. “Folks don’t always read obituaries.” There was a note of hope in her voice. “There’s that music festival downtown. I bet some of her other friends went there. I bet they are toasting her right now.”

“Yes, ma’am. You can just leave those there and I’ll take care of them.”

“Thanks.” She looked around for another task, but the church was as calm and clean as it was before the short ceremony.

“Well, I guess that’s all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She was bigger than life.”

“Badass?” He offered with a smile as if sharing a stolen treat.

“Badass.” She returned his smile. “Thank you.”

The janitor waited, in case there were more thoughts that she needed to unload. He didn’t offer the overheard comments that people dropped as they walked past him. Comments about a woman who thought she was badass, but was really shrewish, always finding the sore points in people’s lives and picking at them until they bled. Other than this one nice lady and the daughter who had traveled from a distant city to bid farewell to a mother she loved but never liked, the mourners were curiosity seekers, wondering if the badass woman would have any final surprises.

The nice lady finally left. The janitor dropped the unused programs in the trash and locked up the church. The afternoon heat was welcome after the artificial coolness of the air conditioning. Whispering “badass,” he gathered all of the harsh words left on his clean floors. He tossed them upward until they disappeared against the blaze of the sun. The kind words of the lady who planned a funeral for her badass friend he tucked in his pocket for comfort on a cold day.

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

Old houses whisper. Sometimes you can hear them laugh right out loud. And sometimes they sob as if in tremendous pain.

I like when they laugh out loud and all the walls vibrate and dance the Merengue to a beat I feel, but can’t quite hear. That’s when magic happens and the people who lived this plot of ground centuries ago salute those living it now.  Awesome!

I learned to Merengue from this old house. I learned by watching the walls vibrate to the muted beat. Every soul in this house can Merengue even though they never had formal lessons. Old houses are powerful teachers.

Old houses whisper, and giggle, and often wail and moan. Life happens in all their foundations. In every ‘nook and cranny’ (as granny used to say.) From cellar to attic. From foyer to back porch. From back porch to clothes line.

When the old house cries, I feel her tears. It’s like the roof is leaking. Water dripping from ceiling tiles, puddling on hardwood floors, and staining the carpets.

Best times are cool days when constant breezes flow gently through her open windows. She tells gentle stories then … all about the ancestors and their many triumphs. If you close your eyes you can see the faces of every single newborn. It’s amazing how they all bear such stately resemblance to one another, no matter the generation.

Did you know that old houses have no need for secrets? Everything sacred is shared. Handed down. Passed from generation to generation by transparent spirits—like ghosts on patrol—sentries at open doors – guides…willing and waiting.

Hand prints, foot prints, finger prints, indentations from bent knees all leave legacies for time to distribute throughout infinity.

Character! Old houses are filled with such character! Listen when they whisper. You’ll see.

I didn’t listen when my father came to me a few days before my wedding in the late 1960s and asked me if I really wanted to marry this guy. My father obviously had reservations but didn’t disclose them. In retrospect, I think my father suspected that the man I was about to marry was gay, but we Midwesterners don’t talk about things like that.

My father didn’t listen when twenty years later, that same husband tried to explain to him why we were getting divorced and to provide some kind of understanding of his gayness. My father was angry and having none of it.

After years of rebuilding our friendship, my ex-husband didn’t listen when I explained to him why the children and I did not agree with his political views. He said we were misinformed and uneducated on the facts. He spent the next ten years trying to cram his beliefs down our throats through a variety of methods, including CDs we should listen to, movies we should watch, and books we should read to get our heads on straight.

Last year, he gave up and informed us he was done and wanted nothing more to do with us. He was fed up, and so were we. Our children say they lost their dad to Fox News. The loss of connection with the father of our children, the dear man I gave a quarter of my life to, has created a sadness within me that I shall carry all my days.

He wouldn’t listen when I tried one last time to get him to reconsider his relationship with our children. I told him he was still their father and now a grandfather. He would be their only parent after I’m gone. His answer was silence.

Silence never got us anywhere. The world is hungry for connection, for community. Writer Brene Brown tells the story of a village where women gathered at the river to wash their clothes together, and when washing machines came along, there was an outbreak of depression. It wasn’t about the washing machines; it was the loss of time spent doing things together, the absence of community.

When we women join book groups, writing groups, churches, food banks, it’s not about the books or the writing or the food. It’s about building community. It’s why I have people over for dinner. It’s not about the meal but the conversation that occurs around the table. It’s about being known, listened to, being heard. When we come together and share the stories of our lives, we are building connections and community.

Not being listened to has always been one of my pet peeves, nourished by 15 years of teaching middle school students. It’s why I write—to be heard.

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

My neighbor Elisa breezes through my door to borrow perfume. She has a date with a man she met through an online dating service, and she wants to “smell like a rose” for him. She avoids eye contact, seemingly unaware that it is my house and my perfume.

She walks with me to my bedroom to sample the perfumes on my dresser. Gold flecks glisten in her hazel eyes, her long blonde hair swings over her shoulders. I tolerate the stream she spouts into the air, as if practicing for the unknown admirer she will meet at Mamacita’s Restaurant. I wonder if she is going to take a breath.

I would like to tell her what I really think, but there is hardly a place in her monologue to interrupt. If I point out that someone who publishes online a diatribe against his wife is untrustworthy and heartless, it would lead to an argument. So, I just listen.

Elisa proceeds to squirt perfumes into the air until she finds the one she wants. She sprays Tea Rose copiously over her head and on each wrist. I would like to tell her that too much perfume is sickening. But I keep my mouth shut.

I have lived next door to Elisa for years, and we are friends, although it often seems to be a lopsided friendship. I have always been helpless to lead her to understand my perspective on any subject. I gave up trying.

I trail Elisa to the front door, my hand over my nose to keep from gasping. She turns at the door and is suddenly quiet. Her mask vanishes, and I glimpse a deep sorrow held captive behind her eyes. She struggles to brighten, as if caught out in a crime. I reach for her, throw my arms around her, and she presses her head into my shoulder. I would like to tell her to sit quietly at lunch and just listen to her date. Perhaps he has his own story to tell. Instead, I tell her to have a good time.

A hesitation, an unacknowledged glimmer of herself, and then the mask is reinstated. The gold flecks are sparkling once again. She kisses the palms of my hands, pulls away and is out the door. Beautiful as a rosebud, she is off to intoxicate a bee. She waves a hand above her head without turning around. “Got to hurry now, can’t be late. Oh, yeah, how do I smell?”

I speak to her disappearing back: “Like a rose, Elisa. Exactly like a rose.”

Miss Anderson, fifth grade teacher, never married—an old maid, we call her. She lives with another old maid teacher in the brown brick apartment building down by the train station. Miss Anderson is tall and bony, and she usually wears the same cotton dress with tiny flowers all over it. She has bouncy blond pincurls that don’t match her oldish, wrinkly face.

Most of our days in her class are pretty boring, in my opinion. But this one day, Miss Anderson shocks us. We’re all standing up with our hands on our hearts, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. But Ralph Miller is making faces at Mary Moakah (aka Mary Moo-Cow) while the rest of us stare at the flag hanging above the blackboard. We are repeating in a droning tone, “I pledge allegiance to the flag …” just as we do every morning before the milk roll call is taken. But Ralph is saying it in a stupid sing-song way.

Right in the middle of “… one nation, indivisible,” Miss Anderson shouts in a voice that splits the air like a rock snapped from a sling shot: “Stop!” She’s looking at Ralph with a face that could kill. “Ralph, I want you to stop acting silly, right now, and listen to what we’re saying.” She’s breathing hard as if she just ran up the stairs. “The Pledge of Allegiance is not a joke.” Then she says in a quivery voice so low that I have to lean in to hear her, “My brother Bobby fought in Germany near the end of the war …“  She makes a funny sound deep in her throat.

Is Miss Anderson starting to cry?  Yes, I think so, because her face is all twisted like she’s about to spit snakes. “He was hit by a mortar. Dead on the spot.” Long pause. We wait, with our breath held. “I won’t ever get to see my brother again.” She’s definitely crying. That’s a first. I can’t wait to tell Mommy.

“So don’t ever, ever make fun of our beautiful flag and our Pledge of Allegiance. Listen to the words, don’t just say them.” She’s talking to Ralph but really to all of us, I’m pretty sure. Then she tells us to begin again. “I pledge allegiance …” I try to pay attention to what I’m saying instead of thinking about whether I’ll play jacks or dodgeball at recess. I even wonder for the first time what that big word “allegiance” means. 

 
The 48-star flag, in use from 1912 to 1959. It’s how I learned 6 times 8 is 48.

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

“Mrs. T? Is that you? Oh my God! “

Though it had been a decade since I had seen her, I immediately recognized that the young woman running across the street with arms outstretched was my former student. She hugged me excitedly and began talking rapidly. “Do you remember me? Jennifer Cobb. I was in your Senior Lit class. You were my favorite teacher.” I had barely murmured an appreciative response before she proceeded. “It’s so good to see you after all these years. I’m married now, you know. I have two little kids. Motherhood is great! How are you, Mrs. T? What are you up to?” Before I gathered myself to answer she proceeded,  “Did you know that our class had a reunion this year? Your name actually came up.”

“Oh? Really?” I replied, with curiosity and more than a little trepidation. There was no telling what former students might remember about me.

“Yes, Maggie Mills brought you up. Do you remember her? She’s Maggie Doherty now.”

The name was a gut punch. Of course I remembered her. How could I forget one of the biggest mistakes of my life?

For years after the incident with Maggie I had questioned and blamed myself. Was it hubris that had motivated me? Was I overconfident about the rapport I thought I had with my students? Back then I was so sincere and well-intentioned and cared so much about my students. So when I had noticed changes in Maggie – missed assignments, class absences, falling out with her friends, puffy face — I confronted her, privately and as gently as I could, about my suspicion that she was falling into drug use.

I remember that I implored her for her own sake to consider carefully the choices she was making. I was certain that I was doing the right and responsible thing. But it was a disaster! Maggie exploded in a torrent of recrimination, blame, and denial. “How could you even think that about me? You’re terrible! You have no right!” She reported me to the administration for breach of privacy and inappropriate behavior. Even though the incident never became public, it had been a very dark time for me. Clearly I had overstepped and misjudged the situation. At the end of the term, I left teaching and tried to forget the shame and embarrassment I felt.

Now here was Jennifer, bringing it all back.

“Actually, what Maggie said was kind of puzzling. Maybe you’ll understand what she meant. During the reunion dinner we were all talking about our memories of senior year, and Maggie stood up and raised her glass. She said, ‘I want to make a toast to Mrs. T. She saved my life.’ ”

“Don’t come here, you’ll get hurt!”  A voice, defiant and unfamiliar.  “I know you, Jan Mason. The phone says it’s you. And I Don’t Want You.”

I hear only the voice of Alzheimer’s disease. My friend’s hostile tone is a hard slap which I won’t let sting. Evan warned of her recent decline. Her son’s arranging for placement in a high care facility.

“I just want to stop by your place for a bit.  I miss your lovely face.  I won’t stay …”

Click, dead air.

During the short drive to her housing complex, I pray she opens the door. Of course, she wants my company…

Meg and I were each other’s village for over thirty years. Our friendship mantra was “I’m here whenever you need an ear, or a soft place to land.” I always felt a guilty gratitude, that I received more than I returned. It was Meg with the generous heart and constant promise. “There’s nothing that could affect our friendship. Any time you need a safe place to come to, Jan, it’s here – day or night. You know I’ll never judge. You can tell me anything.”

We were connected by a mutual understanding that our husbands were unreliable partners, always working and distant. Somewhere on our respective marital roads, anger had replaced love until our unions ultimately crashed and burned.

Yes, we were fated to meet, and she loved recounting that first connective spark.

 “Remember the first time we went for coffee until it was time to pick up the kids from preschool?  How long did it take us to figure out I had been your favorite uncle’s Art Therapist years before! I loved Uncle Henry, too. He was always my favorite at Broadmoor Rehab. We were meant to be, Girl. That man’s our angel!”

I’m relieved when the apartment door opens to the safe comfort of her original artistic creations. Photos, drawings, paintings, small sculptures cover the walls and shelves. Meg usually embodies the color spectrum with her many rings and bangles and warm welcomes. Today’s Meg is a faded substitute, removed from her surroundings – and me.

Like a statue, she tolerates my embrace but pulls away quickly.

“How are you, Meg?” I ask.

“How do you think?” the answer is shot with a vast distress.

“Can I get you something?”

“No,” she says, pointing to the door. “Go! People are being taken away!”

I finally hear you, Meg.

From a place of confusion, she is trying to make me understand that all the familiar is slipping away.  This might be the last possible warning to a friend.

I take her hand and say “I love you” and like a miracle, she smiles.

“Should I go and come back another time?”

She squeezes my hand in answer. “Yes. Please.”

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

“Sorry,” I said. The legs of the tables and chairs were making a puzzle pattern across the wood floor of the coffee shop. My hands were cold. I knew Leticia didn’t want to hear me talk any more about Mom or about Fleetwood Memory Care.

“I don’t like the way things are, period, end of story,” she said. She stretched her long legs out on the sofa as if she owned the place.

“But that’s the way they are,” I said. Mom wasn’t going to get better, and I wished Leticia would talk about the reality of dementia.

“Hey, would you look at that?” she said. There was a bluebird on the bough outside the window. Christmas bulbs were flickering in the late afternoon light, and the bluebird just sat there, like a miracle. The barista kept grinding coffee behind the bar.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said, “just sitting there.” I could feel my breath coming and going. My coffee stirrer sat on the napkin next to my cup, and a scene from Abbott & Costello was repeating on the TV across the room.

“It reminds me of something, though,” I said. That nothing will ever be like it was, I was thinking. Not with mom gone, not dead not alive—like the bluebird of happiness was a cruel fantasy and the innocence of childhood was a fragile fairytale wrapped up in memories of the old house and the old days.

“Do you remember the house at the end of Cedar Street?” I asked. I could picture the brown shingles and the shake roof. Here we were, decades from that house, the years closing in around us, our mother in a memory care facility—what a euphemism—and our father, dead. Sisters sitting in a coffee shop staring out the window at a goddamned bluebird.

“Yeah,” she said. Her legs still stretched out under her coat. The room smelled of coffee and regret. I could picture Mom in her baking apron, the one Leticia liked to wear. Maybe she thought it evoked Mom’s spirit.

“Why?” she asked. Surely the house on Cedar Street must mean something to her too, or was she as cold as my hands were? I was thinking about weird old Mr. Javits, whose house down the block was hidden behind junipers, like the Boo Radley house in To Kill a Mockingbird.

“No reason,” I said.  I wanted more than she could give. Always begging, the way little sisters do. My coffee was getting cold and didn’t taste as good as I would have liked, even with a whole packet of sugar dumped in. The empty packet lay crumpled on the table.

“Maybe we’d better just both go home,” Leticia said. She reached down to pull up the heavy coat that was covering her legs, squared her legs around and stood up. The bluebird flew off its limb.

“My daddy was a Southern Baptist preacher and taught me to welcome and take care of the stranger just like Jesus did. Treat ‘em just like we would want to be treated ourselves. But by golly, these strangers are different,” he says in his Southern Virginia drawl while dining with us. He’s staying at our house while his wife sees a doctor about her pancreatic cancer. She’s an administrative assistant, and her strong-smelling perfume lingers on the jacket I lend her because she neglected to pack one. He’s retired from the military and has a lot of hair on his head for a man in his fifties.

My husband and I host out-of-towners seeking medical care who can’t afford to stay at a hotel. We agreed to host this couple for three days, after hearing they were “very nice people” from the hosting agency. And they are very nice—so grateful for our support, so eager to do the dishes after every meal. They gush compliments about our home and hospitality. They have nothing but positive things to say about their treatment at the hospital, about each other, even about their cancer journey, which showed them how caring people could be.

But the Southern charm wears thin when we start talking about the current immigration situation. I said we should welcome and not shun immigrants fleeing poverty or persecution. After all, my great-grandparents did the same, leaving behind pogroms in Russia and coming to the U.S. with only a few dollars in their pockets.

That’s when the preacher’s son says the new immigrants are different. “My best friend is Jewish,” he goes on with eyes full of warmth that belie the subconscious barbs in his response. “I went to his son’s bar mitzvah and it’s truly amazing what you Jews have accomplished. But you shouldn’t compare yourself to these new people. My great-granddaddy was Irish and poor when he came here, so I get what you all are saying. But it’s just not the same.”

His wife nods in agreement. “There are so many of these El Salvadorans and Mexicans that the other day when I was in Walmart, why I looked around and realized there was nobody that looked like me!”

Just then, a robin starts pecking incessantly at our glass patio door like he’s trying to break in. “What is that bird doing?,” the wife asks. I explain that robins are nesting in the little tree in our courtyard patio that abuts the dining room. While robins nest, they feel compelled to defend their territory from other robins. So when this robin sees its own reflection in the window, it thinks it’s another robin and tries to peck it away.

“Strange,” the wife responds. “You’d think it would know better.”

“Yes,” I sigh. “You’d think it would.”

And then we continue to talk past each other.

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

“I know you are busy, Mom, but this is super important!” Thatch looked up at his mom with wide-open blue eyes. Ellen’s six-year-old’s life was always super important. Therefore, she turned the flame lower under the chocolate she was melting for the frosting and laid a chopping knife down. “What is it?”

“Well, Scrubby, you know my friend Scrubby, well, his name is Tommy, you know, Tommy Higbee with the scar on his chin? We call him Scrubby because the scar always looks dirty all the time and I mean all the time.” Ellen peeked at the chocolate ganache and gave it a quick stir. “Yes, honey, I know who he is.”

“He got a new puppy, well, he has two and he didn’t mean to get two. It just happened that way and…” Ellen checked the cake, no, not pulling away from the edges yet. “…and he said they were going on vacation and needed someone to take the two puppies plus his rabbit Cinnamon. Can you believe the rabbit is housebroken and can be inside!”

“Oh, that’s special.” Ellen quickly sliced half a cucumber for the salad.

“…yeah, when I was over last time the silly rabbit chased the bird that got out of the cage, Twiggy. Isn’t that a dumb name for a bird? Anyway, the bird comes with the cage and has plenty of food for the week…” The frosting was just thick enough. Oh, shoot, the cake. Ellen opened the oven door; “Step back honey so mommy can take out the cake. Now what happened to Tweeter?”

“Twiggy, and nothing happened to him, Mom. He’s coming here with the others. Like I said, the puppies, Simon and Syd, and they both love the bird! Twiggy talks to them and has already learned to say, ‘Shut up’…I don’t think the puppies get it yet.”

“Here, sweets, would you put this over on the counter? That’s not very nice that Scrubby says shut up.” Ellen gently steps around her son and sets the cake on a hot pad.

“It wasn’t Scrubs, it was the bird! Aren’t you listening to anything I say?”

“Of course, you know you must have a bath before five today.”

“Okay, fine. I better go now ’cause bringing Simon, Syd, Twiggy, and Cinnamon will take a couple of trips.”

“That’s a great idea, of course, cinnamon, I knew I was missing something!” Ellen opens the cabinet door for the cinnamon before she glances at Thatch pulling his Red Flyer Wagon off the porch. “Honey, where are you going? You have to have that bath before five!”

We drove on a blazing hot highway over the high desert of northwestern New Mexico in our 20-year-old Honda Civic. There was no air conditioning in the car and my daughter’s two youngsters  and our old dog sweltered in the back seat.

We had to stop at a fast food place in the town. Anything for a break and an iced drink, the kids whining, the dog too, and the old car engine protesting the heat. My daughter and I were so exhausted that we did not speak except for a brief argument about driving on, neither of us listening to the other. Would we push through all night to Utah or stop and get a motel and try to sleep through the heat of the day tomorrow?

Inside the sticky forced air of the restaurant, my grandkids rushed over to join others on the inside play area. My daughter and I slumped in silence over our shared burger. I noticed the family in the booth next to us. They too looked like mother and daughter, and several of their children hollered on the nearby slide. The grandma caught my eye and we started chatting in a casual way.

“Fierce out there, nyah?” We explained our driving plans.

“Well, it would probably be better not to drive that highway so late in the day.” Her voice was quiet, calm, melodic. “Wouldn’t want you guys to do that.”

Heartened that our decision had been made for us, my daughter and I split a piece of over-sweet, glazed apple pie. For a magic moment, we both acknowledged the concern and warmth offered by these strangers. We got our thermos and food together and got ready to go.

The women smiled. “Hope you have listened to us.”

Outside their car was in as bad shape as ours, and we laughed together. They waited for us as we all crowded into our vehicles and then they pulled out ahead of us onto the barren highway. They drove slowly ahead of us to the scrub turnoff to the local motel.

The young mother was driving; she leaned out the window of their car and called, “You listen to us now.” With a beep of the horn and all of them waving, they turned back to the highway.

So many years later, their faces and voices are still vivid in my memory. We listened.

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

Florham Park NJ
 
 
I lost my beloved brother David on October 19, 2023. He was age sixty-nine when he died, about seven years younger than I. I talk to him often and hear from him in extraordinary ways. But, until the evening of July 16, 2024, I had not remembered David in poetry because I had felt so devastated by the circumstances of his death. This poem, “Remember,” told in David’s voice, expresses his joy at having cast off the suffering he experienced daily and having our mother in his new life. This poem is David’s gift to me for closure on his death.
 
I fell down and there wasn’t help to get back into the bed.
I couldn’t grab ahold the bed sheets to elevate my head.
 
I heard your calls about my not picking up the phone.
But I couldn’t reach it on my bed and my life was almost gone.
 
Remember the little red wagon that you pulled me in?
I was three and you were a girl just about age ten.
 
I listened to my heart beating and then I heard the beating stop.
That’s when I saw our Mama holding me upon her lap.
 
My soul resounded with great joy seeing Mama alive again.
Caring for me, the boy she loved, in the way she had back when…
 
She possessed her own right mind, and now her soul was free.
Redeemed from wicked spirits, she was holding me on her knee.
 
I was caretaker for our Mama through many tragic years.
But moments of joy found their way in between the tears.
 
Remember when you came from far away to visit me?
Joy filled my heart for time spent with you and the family.
 
We talked by phone twice a day until my life was over.
Laughing, squabbling, loving our way, big sister and little brother.
 
You began, Hey David. How you feelin’ today?
I ended with, I love you, too. That was our special way.
 
Remember, A Horse with No Name was my favorite song?
When “America” sang it on YouTube, nothing in my life was wrong.
 
I listened when you played the song to honor my going away.
Thanks for remembering the song I loved on our special day.
 
Listen to me, big sister, for a while I seemed cast down.
But I was not ever utterly consumed by the cold hard ground.
 
Don’t feel bad about what you think could’ve happened to me.
My new life is filled with joy. One day you’ll be here and see…
 
But not now. Take care of the family and live your own life well.
Remember, I love you, too, and I’m closer than you can tell.

Listening, from a suite of photographs by Merry Song

A Place Like This

Finding Myself in a Cape Cod Cottage

by Sally W. Buffington

 

A book for anyone who's ever loved a house.

When newly engaged Sally Buffington is introduced to Craigville, she meets an expansive Cape Cod cottage that is virtually a family member itself. She quickly finds herself competing for airtime among the talkative, assured band of brothers—and her new mother-in-law, the cottage’s lively and confounding matriarch. Sally, a Cape Cod local, soon wonders how she’ll ever maintain her independence, let alone her sense of self when the day’s agenda and every detail is already set in stone. But she navigates her new life with quiet persistence and a boundless curiosity that guides her to explore life through the creative lens of her camera and her pen. Sally writes with a whimsical candor that is both honest and humorous. Through poetic prose and heartfelt reflection, A Place Like This reveals the beauty of Cape Cod and shows us that sometimes the simplest of moments brings us the most lasting joy. Sally Buffington is a writer and photographer, also a classically trained musician. From her home in southern California, she migrates back to native ground in Massachusetts, especially her spiritual homeland of Cape Cod. Writing lyrically and imaginatively, ever aware of sensory experience and memory, Buffington takes the reader into her thoughts wherever she finds herself. Buffington can “see things other people don’t see” in everyday scenes and find them beautiful. But her prose is where that ability most shines through. This memoir paints a vivid and lasting memory of a home with as much personality as the family who lived there.

- Book Life

"Punctuated by sensory delights, the author’s prose can prove particularly mouthwatering" …. "An elegantly observant account that transports readers to a beloved place."

- Kirkus

To learn more, and order the book, go to Amazon, Bookshop.org, www.sallybuffington.com, or your local bookstore.

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