Death, Dreams and the Maiden

Come back, Carole.

On your birthday, January 3, my friend Sharon posted my first blog. I cried most of the day, too distracted to make heads or tails of it … our sisterhood cut short, our manuscript only half of itself without you. I need you here, to complete what we started …what we began but could not finish together.

You still come in dreams with that bright smile of yours. Just days ago I hugged and hugged you, you standing in the living room in front of a grandmother clock that doesn’t work, you in a long beige linen dress and a funky shmatelich hat with flappy cloth plumes of beige and brown, matching your dress. You tall and elegant: zany and stately, blending the two like no other.

I called out to my husband, “Look she is really back, come see Carole … .” But he was in the shower and could not hear me; my own gruff voice, hoarse from screaming, awakened me … and you were gone again, my sister.

First Blog Ever!

Writing is a passport, a journey born from the crevices of brainstuff, a constant bloodletting going into and coming from.

Motion. Solitude. Action. Desperation.

Why then do we subject ourselves to its elements, those cursed, mottled ideas, afloat, motherless, untethered, waiting to be reigned in, corralled into what? Attainment of exactly what as we slouch towards Bethlehem?

We BLOG!