Don’t Call It a Sacrifice

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Don’t call it sacrifice.

“The Army Goes Rolling Along” first played for Jay and me well over a decade ago. He in his dress blues, a bit loose and with few bells and whistles, I fitted in white satin, walked into the St. Dominic Parish Hall to the song that would mark so many moments of our married life. Fifteen years later, he in his perfectly tailored and fully decorated dress blues, I in a navy sheath, that song played for us one last time. Continue reading »


Being a modern woman is exhausting

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From the World Wide Web to cable news outlets to my preferred morning show, I am inundated with advice on how to live as a modern woman. I should toss my makeup, purchase a full wardrobe of athleisure-wear, and dismiss any person who dares to judge me based on my under-eye circles, leggings as pants, and unkempt hair. I should also run a 10K every morning, dedicate my life to CrossFit, and organize my home so that the editors of Real Simple, Good Housekeeping, and Southern Living can have a tea party on my floor. I am to eat only food grown by local farmers and purchased at Whole Foods for twice its market rate because, after all, it’s artisanal, be the CEO and CFO and COO of a major corporation, and ensure Baby will ace the SAT by age one because he has never ever viewed anything on a screen, all while wearing the latest trends and kicky, heeled booties. So, now that my Five Hour Energy Shot just kicked in, draw back the curtain on the confessional because I’m about to spew some truth regarding my life as a modern woman. Continue reading »


Christmas Past, Christmas Future

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A short story for Christmas…

Disappointed, delicate fingers affix the red and gold bow to the top of the three-foot tree. She arranges the ribbons so that they cascade down the artificial limbs and fill holes left vacant by too few ornaments. The mismatched memories smile at her as she places the polished, silver star back in its foam, resting place. “Too heavy, again.”

She had purchased the star a decade before, unaware of where or when it would be used. That Christmas would be spent under hotel sheets, a reunion eleven months in the making. “Next year,” she had thought when she placed the box in the trunk of her car, atop suitcases, next to carefully wrapped packages and one hand-made poster that read, “Welcome Home!”

The star waited, hidden away under foam and cardboard, for its debut. Patience extended through too-small houses, temporary quarters, and Christmases with no tree at all. “I’ll enjoy Mama’s tree,” she had thought one year while driving through Chicago, six hours into their trek home. “My star would have been perfect on Mama’s tree.” Thirteen hundred miles there, and thirteen hundred miles back with only three days in between.

She had hoped this would be the Christmas the star would brighten the top of her tree, for this Christmas would be special, more special than all the others. This Christmas welcomed new beginnings and bid farewell to old fears. The star was to be a shimmery symbol of all to come and all to leave behind, but her three-foot tree could not bear such weight.

“I can wait one more year,” she tells him and rubs her cheek against his hand, rested on her shoulder.

The house that holds their future is filled with Christmases past. Between the floorboards and up the grand banister, one hundred years of holiday celebrations mark the mantels and linger in the parlor.

One more year.

Five hundred final miles.

“Next year,” she says and smiles at the worn box. “You will have a home.”