On Thirty Three Miles

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SchoolEach time I walk through the doors of my daughter’s public high school, my heart pulls me back through the years to the days when I was young. I think about the school I went to, thirty-three miles from this very building, so very close and yet so very very far, thirty-three miles and a million years away.
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On Home Sweet Home

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HouseCemetary

The rooms never really felt like mine. They were full of furniture bought because normal people started their normal lives with a dining room set, a bedroom set, a dinette set, a living room set, and a breakfront heavy with silver gifts that shouted. Bookcases full of holy books, for holy people, living holy lives.

Of course I knew that before I changed anything, it was best to ask Sister or Mother. I knew that that I had always hung the pictures in the wrong places, for the wrong reasons, on the wrong walls, that I had always shown them to the wrong people.

I knew that I didn’t know how to decorate, pick paint or arrange flowers, and that I couldn’t do the laundry without leaving stains on the clothes. I knew that I always set the table with the wrong fork on the wrong side, that I couldn’t be trusted to put the rug straight and even, that I never remembered to dust the tops of the bookcases.

Of course I knew all this, I’m not stupid, you know.

An Open Letter To Deb Tambor, A Mother Who Could Not Live Without Her Children

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DebTambor

Dear Deb,

We never met and I never knew you, but on the day that you left us, my heart bled.

I know what it feels like, to live in the darkness of daylight, to feel the swirling masses of people passing like ships in the night.

I know what it sounds like, to scream in the wind and only hear echoes, tears met with the mocking sounds of laughter.

I know what means to be done with today, to not want tomorrow, because tomorrow is but another today.

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On Orphans

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I often wonder about those children, the orphaned ones who lost a parent in the world wars of religion.

I cannot believe that they are happy, that they rejoice in their forced salvation, because how can happiness exist in a heart cruelly twisted between love and faith?

I imagine what it must feel like to be told that your mother or father is a traitorous heretic, that the one who gave you life is doomed to rot in the fiery pits of hell.

I often wonder about those children, and as I think about endless days of pain and shameful months of silence, of years full of self-hatred, my own heart twists and I cry.

On Prejudice

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What Would YOU Do?

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