I don't do regret, as a general rule. It doesn't mean that there are not things that I wish I had done differently, 'merely' that I try to learn from them and move on, aiming to do better next time.

Sometimes, though, even that is not quite enough.
My mother wrote. She wrote children's books, novels, poetry, and various bits of non-fiction. The ( Read more... )

For all that one may wish to live forever, truth be told, we can only expect to live on in the impact we have on other people ( Read more... )

Three years ago, long about now, my mother died abruptly, though she had been dying in quiet (and not so quiet) ways for a while, before and after we noticed ( Read more... )

"Goodnight!" I've said a dozen times ( Read more... )

We're lovers still. His hand ( Read more... )

As most of you know, my mother died a bit more than a year and a half ago. Since then, slowly (if not surely), I've been weeding her paperwork and out-of-date reference books (college guides and phone books ( Read more... )

By the Jewish calendar, a year has passed since my mother's death, though a few days remain on the Christian calendar - a calendar to which, honestly, I am more responsive than that of my ancestors ( Read more... )

I read the new Dick Francis book today ( Read more... )

I was up at my parents' father's house earlier today. He's not there; he's got a new job (at 84) that took him to London ( Read more... )

The sun has set this flaming day.
(That verse was penned by E. Millay.)
The snow fall's soft; the pony's lost.
(That stanza's famous: Robert Frost.)

When I would plumb the Soul's dim core,
It's Henley's, glimpsed from foreign shore.
And when the seas my thoughts immersed ( Read more... )