He bought her birds and not just any type: Quail, wicker, and one from Spain.

I placed them on top a dresser in her room.

She cried.

Spring waltzed in: heart full, old fashioned, and sensual.

Spring waltzes in: beautiful, hard to describe, sensual. There is something old fashioned in her grace, tender to her touch. She slips off, leaving you lost in a bed of hyacinth.

~ a dove’s call


“Children should be seen, not heard.”  She says it once, her voice stern. I notice the lock of hair that falls loose and softens her face, a strand I want to touch yet dare not. My grandmother’s hands are clasped, hiding her fingers. Fingers that will never touch my cheek or stroke my hair. A […]

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life, tell me a story, writing

I once read that the path to discovery is never a straight line. It’s a spiral and you keep circling back to find new truths. This is how I felt. The more I searched, the less I knew, yet, the more I understood. ~Annie

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She was full of birdsong at sunrise written notes, long conversation a sin and a prayer the scent of cut lemon and crushed rose Seventies rock and shuffling blues With a little bit of save the world And I loved her for all that she thought she wasn’t ~cashmere and cotton

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say it, writing

She believed in more. More time to wonder, to imagine possibility in an ordinary moment. To believe in two strangers on a crowded street, the unfamiliar hand that reaches to hold a door, one certain glance. Everything had changed yet she knew. His eyes looked like home.

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