Slowing, by Marla Coppolino

Moving distinctly and unconventionally,
  with deliberate, unhurried pace

A whispered Tai Chi dance
   in the nucleus non-worry

Now I see the spaces between the rain drops
   and the soft outer glow

Of seeds and sprouts
   and leaves and larvae

And the multi-colors of lichens
   and patterns on spiders

And cicadas whose calls that swell
   in pitch and volume

I calmly study ripples in the wake
   of the atmosphere

Of those who advance more quickly
    than I choose.

(c)2016 M. Coppolino

To the Blank Spaces, by Stacey Murphy

What happens when we, who love words,
come to find ourselves more alive
in the blank spaces 
between the words?

At first is seems like a clever trick —
a break from the flow,
something to freshen the mind,
to stop and attend
to the eyelash lull
between two words.
The pause.
The millisecond between
inhale and exhale.
A little frightening for those uneasy in silence
to have any moment
alone with oneself —
best just to run straight past it,
avert the eyes,
continue the babble.

The brook keeps running
though there are gaps
between the stones on the bottom
where things live,
very silent, very still,
holding the winning poker-hands of possibility
while the chunks of ice and twigs
race overhead,
as fast as they can,
making it happen.
Making the thaw happen.
Making sounds to ease winter-weary hikers who
stop for sigh of spring.
Keep moving, keep rushing,
all will be well.
Better is coming, perhaps downstream.
Perhaps the next meeting,
the next speech,
the next therapy session,
the next story,
the next chat,
the next poem
will advance the plot.
But look closer.
Breathe into those
little blanks of white between the lines
that let our eyes rest
even while the greedy brain
tries to stuff it all in,
believing it comprehends all meaning.
Our microbreaths add the subtext,
the backdrop,
as Paul Harvey might say, “The Rest of the Story.”
Perhaps as we learn to notice the gaps,
so soothing,
so lush and full on their own
that there may not be another word

for a few

moments.

Whole naps,
whole meditations,
whole peaceful planets
come to live in the blank spaces.
I have loved and lost and loved again in the space of a moment.
In the SPACE of a moment,
not the prattle of a moment.
In the electricity of potential
it has happened so fast I have not even realized it,
the joyful rubber-banding
of my soul
playing in those deep true

blank spaces.

My Mother's Lipstick, by Sue Crowley

My mother's lipstick, a deep shade of red, sat on her dressing table the morning after she died, the first thing I saw when I walked into her room.

My mind was already on what to take from her closet, what to bury her in, but that little pink tube arrested those thoughts, as did the odor, distinctly her own, that clung to her empty clothes.

I picked up the lipstick, looked in the mirror she had looked in every morning for decades, and colored my lips bright red.

Carefully, so carefully, gliding the cream across that delicate skin, thinking all the while: This is the last kiss.

Then I went to the closet and buried my face in an old sweater thinking: This is the last hug.

The Orchard, by Katherine May

I am surrounded by orchards everywhere I look.  There’s the old apple orchard on top of the knob field and then a small grouping of cherry trees.  There are peaches and plum trees and a small arbor for grapes and finally pears and quince.

Old gnarly stumps lean into the arbor and seem not to be alive but every September it’s a race to see if I can harvest the grapes before the squirrels and birds take their fill. When Pearl lived here, she and her granddaughters picked grapes for jam and put up six batches that would last them through the winter.

I found some of the jars in the basement, thick heads of wax at the top and the most beautiful quilted pattern etched into the glass. I didn’t dare to eat the jam inside, but I wanted to taste it and kept it on the counter for a few weeks.

I could make my own jam, I suppose, but then I’d have to figure out a way to keep the squirrels and birds from eating all the grapes and that seems like too much work. Besides, I like that there’s something for them to eat and I like watching them from my kitchen window. They remind me of another time that I can’t quite put my finger on but it comforts me.

I think of Pearl often here in this big old house living alone for many years. Her photo is faded from the sun streaming through the window, but her presence is still so strong. She lived here for 80-plus years so how could I not be aware of her. I am the queen of the kitchen now, but here is Pearl’s jam — oh, that’s a musical group, I think — but no, I mean to say Pearl is gone but her presence is not and the jam is a reminder of a gift she left behind.

We all will leave gifts behind to remind others that we were here for just a short time.

Because There Was Still Time, by Stacey Murphy

Because there was still time
      He leaned against the running parking meter
      Getting his money’s worth.

Because there was still time
      A last stolen slow dance.

Because there was still time
     They walked slowly through the meadow 
     Fingertips brushing tall grass
     Furtive sideways glances.

Because there was still time
     One more story to fill the silence.

Because there was still time
     Cutting extra zinnias to fill out the bouquet.

Because there was still time
     We wasted it deciding what to do.

Where I Live Now, by Margaret Dennis

I live in an "Old People's Home." That's what I call it, expecting listeners to laugh. I know that I do this because I am still slightly embarrassed by the fact that this is a retirement home and that I am old enough to qualify to live here. That sounds silly and egotistical, I know, but that is my truth. At any rate, any negative feelings about the place itself are dispelled by how fond I am of my apartment here.

It is a small space, termed a "studio." I actually like that word; it connotes something artist-like. It is just big enough to hold all my personal belongings. Over the years, I moved a bit, and I gave up furniture and larger items as I changed my address. Now I live in a space that Goldilocks might term: "just right."

People always ask if there is a kitchen and the answer is yes. I have a recently remodeled space with bright wood cabinets, a stove, and a refrigerator. Not that I use the kitchen for cooking. I wouldn't dream of it. I take my meals downstairs in the dining room whenever my "schedule" allows. (There I go again, suggesting a brisk, busy life!) It looks good though: bright colored utensil holders, colorful teapots, and vivid dish towels. This is a facade. If you tried to create a real meal here you would be disappointed, but it makes me happy. I only need my fire-engine red plug- in water heater and my French Press, and I am content.

My bed is big: a queen-sized one with one of those really good mattresses that you sink into. I know, I know! It cost a lot but it was an indulgence I allowed myself when I moved here.

I have a wildly-colored spread — orange and blue and red — that my son brought me from Texas. This year, I bought myself a really cozy throw that I found in a tiny shop in Ireland. It is grey, just like the skies there. Every time I pull it around me, to drink my coffee or read a book, I am brought right back to the rainy day I found it. I can still hear the lovely lilt of the young shopkeeper's voice.

I have a small divan; I prefer the term "fainting couch," and at least three types of garden chairs. These are not all that comfortable but I love the graceful look of them. I have a coffee table, bought in a secondhand store. My son looked at  the large scratch across the glass top and said, "You don't want this one!" I replied, "Oh yes! I like to think that scratch was made on a sunny afternoon on a veranda somewhere, probably Florida, when the hostess was serving a cool glass of gin and tonic to a friend and it slid across the table, making this mark." My son shook his head with a smile on his face.

Oh the art! I have some wonderful pieces. Some bought in New York City, some in Maine, some in Provincetown. Many were painted by friends. My refrigerator door provides a great backdrop for my most valuable pieces: paintings in noisy colors and misspelled notes from my grandchildren. My favorite note says "To Mimi: weird, loving, kind, funny," and there is a little sketch of us all digging in the sand at Coney Island, our favorite destination in summer.

I have several mirrors to catch the light and oh, the light: perhaps that is the most important thing. I don't bother my big windows with curtains. They face west and the light in the mid to late afternoon is spectacular. The windows overlook the garden in the front of our building and I have a wonderful view of trees and flowers when they bloom. There is also a small pond stocked with goldfish. I can count them moving about in the summer but this morning the pond was covered with a layer of silver ice. It seemed even more beautiful.

I love this space. It is my retreat, my hollow, my nest. It makes any of my dismay about living among only older folks, with all the slight irritations, fade away when I close my door. Oh, I forgot to mention my book case. That I will have wherever I live!

I am happy here and very, very lucky to be one of the "old people."

It's Where My Story Begins: short pieces about our places of origin, by 5 members of the Tuesday Morning Writing Circle

Leah Grady Sayvetz

It all started here, on this floor of hardwood tongue-and-groove boards, bought cheap from a building getting torn down. Here where the morning and noon sunlight beams through the giant window, the whole eastern wall of the room. Here in this small room which housed only one double bed and one small dresser. The bed, a mattress, bought new, sitting on a frame built for it from recycled lumber. The dresser, very old, and with its own story which creaks out a word at a time each time a drawer is opened or closed. Here with the old glass lamp sitting on the small dresser, a willowy pattern of leaves etched into the foggy glass. It all started here, where the big piece of mirror glass reflected my mom's rosy cheeks and big, full-moon balloon, pregnant belly. The mirror secured to the wall with two pieces of scrap wood and four screws. That mirror hides on the wall behind the door swung open. The door came from some place where it had swung into other rooms before, perhaps seen other babies born. I was born on the floor of this room, as my mother squatted next to that bed, the only brand-new thing in that little room besides me. Twenty-six years have changed the furniture here and covered the walls in artwork and photographs, marking my years growing up. Only just the other day did I finally leave. 

====

Leslie Howe

My family and I moved to Orient, Long Island when I was in the second grade. My father had accepted an appointment on Plum Island — a few miles out in the Long Island Sound where animal research was done in order to keep foreign animal infectious diseases out of the United States.  

We rented a a house in the middle of "town."  Town consisted of two churches, a post office, a candy store called "The Idle Hour" (that must also have sold canned goods, soda, milk, bread, and tobacco), and a gas station that also provided mechanical work on every model of vehicle known to man back in the 1950s.

Orient had many farms. Potato farms were most prevalent. Fishing was a small industry there as well, but for other, larger industries, one had to travel inland to larger towns like Greenport, Southold, and Riverhead.

I attended a school that had two grades per classroom. Mine was grades two and three. I walked to school with my best friend, Sylvia Brooks. My phone number was 1109-R. We were on a party line. Everyone in Orient knew everyone else's business! I knew that my brother, Neil, age 9 1/2 when I was 6, liked Donna Latham better than her twin sister, Rosemary. When I told that information to others, I got into deep trouble at home.

Our house was located right next to the firehouse so every day at noon, when the fire siren sounded, we were deafened by the sound and all conversation was stopped due to the loud noise. If there was a fire or an accident in the middle of the night, we all woke up abruptly to that loud siren right next door.

It was really nice spending a few years living in the quaint little village at the tip of Long Island where everyone seemed to know everyone else, crime was nonexistent, and the salty sea air was filled was sounds of sea gulls and ocean waves lapping the shore amidst the reeds and sandy seashells. 

====

Nancy Osborn

Where my story begins — the story of how I wanted to live my life and how I have finally done so for almost half of it — that story began in the small upstate village of Liverpool, on Onondaga Lake.

At the time it was still a village, not just an extension of the Carousel Mall. It was a small town, separated from Syracuse by undeveloped land along the lake. It was a journey to travel to Syracuse, past the Salt Museum, past the French Fort, a journey past ugly oil tanks, and a disgustingly stinky garbage dump at the end of the lake. I always hated having to leave Liverpool to go see my parents' friends in the city of Syracuse.

I would have been content to stay at home on our tree-shaded street, playing with the neighbor kids, or roller-skating down our block or chasing rabbits in the park by the lake.

Ever since we moved away from Liverpool to the quintessential suburb outside Chicago and then to other suburbs in Western New York, I had longed for my parents to pick another small town to live in, but they never did.

So it fell to me, after many unhappy years in Buffalo and Boston, where I learned once again what I always knew, that I was not meant to live in big cities - it fell to me to find that small town for myself, to continue my story that began 65 years ago on 4th Street in Liverpool.

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Olivia Royale

My story begins in a place where the cops killin' don’t exactly make the news. i credit my hardness to my home town and i never tell folks the name of it. i don’t remember much from  childhood. But in my teenage years, my hometown was a badge, i wore on my leather jacket. i often looked at the dirt, and the poor people, and used it to inflict pain. i lived in “the next town over” from the high school I went to. It was an all white school and my first lesson in privilege. i drove my sister’s boyfriend's car when I was 15 because no one in my family could drive me. i parked in the seniors lot. i always flipped off anyone who challenged me for it — don’t those kids know where i come from? most of my friends didn’t come to my house but lucky for me my folks worked all the time and no one was home to tell me what to do. when i finally got my license i picked up a girl i worked with, Yaz, who was from the Dominican Republic and lived in the worst neighborhood in town. i drove to pick her up and when we pulled away from the curb she told me: “Don’t make eye contact with anyone.” When i got out i spent a few years traveling around. i tried all those cool towns you were suppose to move to. i think about my hometown a lot, ‘specially when I am noticing that privilege. i always move to the dirtier parts of town after that. i wanna stay true to that hardness. i was one of the lucky ones, i got out. i owe it to my hometown to defend the dirt, and those poor folks. And level out all the differences.

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Sara Robbins

Poughkeepsie, New York is a small city with a strange name situated on the Hudson River, 60 miles north of New York City. I was born there at St. Francis Hospital where my father, a doctor, delivered me, because the doctor who was supposed to deliver me was late. 

I went home with my parents to live on the upper floors of an old Victorian house which housed my father's office on the first floor. It was in downtown Po'town (my nickname for my hometown) on Church Street, where many beautiful old homes stood. 

When I was six months old, my mother, father, older brother, sister, and I all moved to a big country house on two acres, at the top of Brickyard Hill on Dutchess Turnpike. Over the years this house was remodeled and given an early '60s look. A real soda fountain/bar was installed off the huge family room. A regulation-sized pool table and a pinball bowling machine and another bar were installed in the very large basement. A 20x40 foot pool was installed on the front lawn with an extra bouncy diving board and a tall curved slide. There was a field where my father had a garden. He loved to grow tomatoes and at night in the summer we would have "me me" parties where we ate ripe tomato sandwiches on white bread with mayo and salt — the three of us kids yelling "me me" when asked who wants one? Daddy was proud of those tomatoes. Eventually he had a three-car garage erected next to the garden site.

Our home was different from anyone else's. We had a live-in maid whose little suite — bedroom, bathroom, and living room — was upstairs. My father loved music and technology and he had a stereo system installed that played music in three rooms, plus out by the pool. He even had a phone jack installed by the pool so he could always receive calls.