A List and a Food Short, by Sara Robbins

Some Things That Have Not Changed

I still love dogs and wish I could get another puppy

I still try to pet every dog I see on the street if the owner says it is friendly

I still read 3 books at a time

I still love to cook for people but I wonder if I'm bribing them with food

I still think of my mother every day

I still cry when I hear certain songs: Over the Rainbow, Who Knows Where the Time Goes, Danny Boy . . . .

I still remember what my son smelled like as a young child

I still wish I could time-travel

I still have vivid dreams; I remember them and learn from them

I am still terrified of all rodents

I still need to have lots of colors around me

I still carry loss within, I always have, I always will

I still find people interesting and I want to hear their stories

I still talk to dead people; I ask for their help

I still turn to chocolate chip muffins to ease my pain — I call this the grief diet and see no end in sight

I still am a caregiver

I still love therapy

I still refuse to be a victim

I still appreciate anything good that comes my way

Apple Cake

I love to bake apple cakes. I use a variation of Aunt Minnie's recipe and it always works. Sometimes I leave out the cardamon, sometimes I use dried cranberries, and currants, and walnuts instead of pecans. I always add vanilla and cinnamon, the cake always disappears quickly. I bake it in various pans (buttered or oiled, lined with sesame seeds) — a Bundt pan, a sheet pan, a Pyrex pie plate, a tiny heart-shaped pan I got at a yard sale years ago, muffin tins. This recipe is very flexible and I think of Aunt Minnie and say "Thank you" whenever I make it. Maybe I'll bake one today.

5 Minutes / 5 Lines Part 2

Written by some members of the Tuesday Morning Writing Circle on October 6, during the first few moments of our gathering

Gabrielle Vehar

why is it that sometimes

those we most love

make us the most irritated

often just by doing

nothing at all

Leah Grady

how a chair holds you

reminds your body

of being held before

in a mother's arms

or father's, or aunt's

Linda Keeler

the thought of breakfast wakes me

cold cereal

but now, no peaches

so dish up the oatmeal

with seeds and nuts and maple syrup

Marty Blue Waters

little bugs with no appetite for my blood

always welcome around me

hard workers climbing an endless wall

quietly reminding me to refocus

lots to do — lots to do

Sara Robbins

I walk the woods

I still see green above

the canopy my cathedral

I talk to you and breathe it in

you loved this place

Sue Perlgut

72 looms

proving that I am

getting older

moving towards

what? I can't say it

Zee Zahava

after nearly a week

the road crew is gone

all that remains

is the tangy scent

of slow-drying tar

5 Minutes / 5 Lines

Written by some members of the Thursday Morning Writing Circle on October 1, during the last few moments of our gathering

Leah Grady Sayvetz

fall is when leaves come down

I think that's called onemonopea

but I don't think I spelled that correctly

now I'm trying to think back to English 103

where I learned that word

today is Thursday but it feels like Tuesday

making me realize who needs days of the week anyway?

because the significance of a day is 

what you do

not what they say it's called

sitting on the break or work bench, he's cutting fabric

he's making paper from old military uniforms

I sit down later on my break and am taken off guard

holding this inch-square stained camo with a seam and one button

I realize that the person who wore this died in war

Liz Burns

this morning I walked

my feet hurt

the creeks are fuller and flowing faster

there are some bigger puddles on the streets

but the ground has soaked up all the rain that fell

the small bulldozer plowed through the high grass

it cut through the brush on the hill and

moved a huge mound of earth

the landscapers cut down trees and then not content

with that, moved across the road and cut down more

Michael Schaff

five minutes — stop engines

five lines the limit

on a boat tying up

to an aquatic clock dock

only seconds left to summer

Sue Crowley

we slept in our car while crossing a desert

I was so small I fit on a shelf beneath the curved back window

one night I woke in the dark, overwhelmed by the endless infinity above me

aware at once of this tiny human speck amidst the unfathomable

not even my mother's gentle comforts could stop the tears

Susan Lesser

horse chestnuts nestle in the still green grass

only a few tomatoes left to pick

red leaves from the maple let go and dance to the ground

the gaudy zinnias bloom unaware

their time is passing

on the stove a pot of winter beef stew

in the oven a pie of apples, homemade crust

on the blue countertop a bowl of green salad crowned with a ring of feta cheese

in the basket rolls waiting for the butter dish

all of us home for dinner at last

Yvonne Fisher

at Yom Kippur services

the rabbi reminded us

that just beside joy

is sorrow and just

beside sorrow is joy

the Rinpoche said:

yes, you live in the heaven realm

now but it's better

to come back

down to earth

somebody hit my parked car

I jumped up ready to yell

the driver was a nice man

from Tibet in a big SUV

I calmed down instantly

Zee Zahava

34 years ago I met my sweetheart

she was wearing a pair of Frye boots

she spilled a cup of coffee in my lap

I thought she was adorable

last week she finally gave the boots away

yesterday I cooked up a big pot of apple sauce

for the first time ever

I left the peels on the apples, sprinkled in cinnamon

and used a large fork to mash things up

keeping it all lumpy the way my grandmother used to do