It’s just that love, I think, is magic, and work. Madeleine L’Engle once wrote about the great gift of love, the great cosmic pairing of two, and she said this: “It’s a strange thing, how you can love somebody, how you can be all eaten up inside with needing them–and they simply don’t need you.
There was a time when the cookie sheets were not burnt and rusty, when the diamond was new, shiny, sparkling. We were young, and tan, and overly analytical. After we married, we disagreed about whether or not we should paint the walls in our Los Angeles apartment satin or eggshell. Both, we’d decided, and we
There are days when a group of objects are placed just so. There is a bowl of sunlit fruit casting shadows over a wilting flower on the dining room table he’d built with his hands, before the baby, when we were two. Bowls stacked, ready and able, and there is coffee. A white mug, oversized
I’m not a fan of small talk, not in the slightest. I’m just not good at it; I want to dive in – faster, deeper, down into the depths of what makes us all tick. (I know you’re not surprised by this.) So basically, when surrounded by friends or acquaintances or colleagues or family, I
When your friend tells you the news that she’s moving to San Francisco over a casual take-out night, you wince a little. The corners of your smile twitch upward because you want to smile, but your gut is pulling down, down – deep into the pit of your belly. So your face pulls like a