Sunday, May 24, 2020

Oh please, enlighten me

So I should consider it okay
if it’s my Mom, age 88,
blind from strokes, confined to a care facility
and, wait for it,
giddy with the joy of new found love.
Or my wife, a cancer survivor,
who looks too young to be in any high-risk population.
Or our son who was born premature and
has been fighting the odds each new day.
Or one of my grandkids, (Who would dare to
tell me that any of my grandkids are merely fodder
so we can save our precious economy?)
Oh, and add to the list life-long friends,
co-workers, neighbors and acquaintances.

And you want me to believe
their death is acceptable because:
as Americans our rights are sacred and demand risks,
or they probably have some
weakening condition and would soon die,
or it is just their time,
or (please spare me)
god called them home
(or to a better place,
or fill in the vapid cliché of your choice).

That’s all I have.
But I’m sure you have more.
So, please enlighten me as to  
why I should gratefully fight for and
enjoy my rights and privileges
even at the cost of the life
of one of these, so dear to me?

Wednesday, May 20, 2020

We’re trying (the Corona Chronicles)

“I… can’t… take… this… shit… any… more!”

“Come on Kris, language. Your Father and I are trying to make the best of these tough times. It’s hard on everybody.”

“I don’t care. I’m outa here. You don’t understand. I need some friends.”

“You aren’t going anywhere. Keys and phone, NOW!”


“Taking away friends and games seems the only way to get you to listen.”

“Come on!”

“This isn’t a conversation. Take that laptop, go to your room and get your school work done.”

“OK.” …Does she really have no clue what I’m going to be doing all morning?

Fiction 101: The goal is to tell a story in 101 words or less.

Sunday, May 17, 2020

nothing we can do

another too short night bleeds into another
too hectic morning that transitions to a too dark,
too dreary, too windy, too rainy northwest commute

check email, brew tea, get organized, remember: 
treat people how i hope to be treated,
all that golden rule stuff
interact with staff, kids arrive, and arrive,
and arrive, half asleep, bleary eyed, glued to phones,
laughing and scheming with friends, 
shoves and grabs, some alone, so alone, 
squeals, insults and accusations, chatter perks
to a disorientating racket, remember:
they are somebody's babies 
bell rings, ever-morphing bodies
grudgingly crowd through halls and into chairs

i think again about the unnamed weight hovering,
bearing down and the knowing, that it can happen there
reminding me daily, it can happen here
and i hope they don't think about it
as often as i do and i hope they don't realize
there is nothing we can do to predict or stop it

Monday, May 11, 2020

Too much pain (the Corona Chronicles)

I always believed in America, God and country. Had to protect our rights.

Trusted my President. He knew what was best and would take care of us. He said, “Don’t fear.” “Liberate.” “Go back to work.” My soul raged. Crazy liberals weren’t shutting down our country.

Covid-19 infected my husband, fear, hospital, pain and so alone. Then our granddaughter. My secret favorite. Same result, only much more pain.

This is beyond what I can take. I refuse to be next. Thanks for your love and support. I pray my leaving this way doesn’t cause you too much pain.

Grand Lawn Cemetery | Detroit MI funeral home and cremation

Fiction 101: The goal is to tell a story in 101 words or less.

Thursday, May 7, 2020

Can’t be (the Corona Chronicles)

It was a perfect day for a parade.

The organizer, a local restaurant owner, was quoted, “We’re hard working Americans. We have our rights. We need to work.”

Cars, trucks and tractors were covered in red, white and blue. They stretched for a mile slowly making their way through town honking horns and waving to the cheering crowd.

The crack of the gun was barely audible. Cars abruptly stopped and whispers drifted down the street.

“Someone’s been shot.”
“A kid.”
“Not Amy, she’s only three.”
“It can’t be.”

Sirens and lights filled the street as the hushed crowd dispersed.

Fiction 101: The goal is to tell a story in 101 words or less.

Monday, May 4, 2020

Our soul knows (the Corona Chronicles)

Tuesday bleeds to Wednesday to Thursday to Friday to who knows or cares. Meals morph from a creative endeavor to scouring for palatable sustenance. TV, or more accurately streaming, drifts from overwhelming choices to muddled distractions. Whether shack or castle, home feels too crowded. And the Internet just plain sucks.

No matter our “creature comforts,” or our being in control our soul knows that we do not know what we have always known. And our commitments and connections will wonder, while bearing the ache and scars, long into the future.

Fiction 101: The goal is to tell a story in 101 words or less.