Bits of Glass

I winced as I hurried across the yard. The pain in the bottom of my bare feet reminded me that there were acorns on the ground.  I was chasing the ever-elusive ten-pound chihuahua/rat terrier mix named Pumpkin. He had escaped into the front yard. No amount of calling his name, offering of treats, whistling, or any other tactic I could think of was enticing him to return to the house. He seemed to think it was a game. He would stop in the street or in a neighbor's yard. Then, just as I got close, he would take off running. He is very fast.  I don't like to fall, and I do like to breathe. So, I walk after this stubborn little dog.  Chasing Pumpkin reminds me of my Dad's words, "There's nothing I dislike more than a dog who won't come when he's called." That is my dog. He is eleven years old and has NEVER come when he is called. He comes when he wants to. Sometimes when I call him he ignores me. Other times he turns and looks at me, then goes abou

It sneaks up on me every year. There’s a cloud that rolls over my soul right around Thanksgiving. It usually blows in with the first wintery weather. The first few years I was ready. Around the middle of November I would steel myself against the feelings I knew were coming. I would tell anyone who would listen how rough the next few weeks would be for me. I anticipated the waves of grief that would threaten to pull me under on the anniversary of the death of my son, Matthew. I would try to fill my schedule as much as possible, trying to drown out the sorrow with a flurry of activity.   I would work myself into a frenzy worrying about how hard the day would be. The dreaded day would come, and I would get through. I would breathe, and realize that I had made it through another year since that horrible day. It’s now been twenty-five years since that fateful day. Years of day-to-day routines have carved out a new normal. Now the cloud is more subtle. Little signs of the grief cloud