On Open Houses and Choice in a Foreign Tongue

It is early in the morning. She rests her head against my shoulder, twisting her body around in an attempt to find a comfortable position. I sit as still as I can, knowing she will turn again and again until we finally get there. I’ve learned to be the rock she circles; forever keeping me … Continue reading On Open Houses and Choice in a Foreign Tongue

Mourning my Son with no Name

The flutters intensify every year as we light the last candle. Eight flames burning is the signal; the moment we start counting down the week until our baby’s birthday, three days before his death. This year, my womb contracted wildly with the news of another boy torn from his mother too early… too violently. I held my … Continue reading Mourning my Son with no Name

A Million Shades of Green

I’m like Garfield, just different, she says as she pulls on Freddie Mercury’s orange fur, baiting him. I like lasagna, but I hate Sundays. She laughs as Freddie pounces. I don’t bother disciplining her about the cat again. Their love is wild and free-spirited. Plus, she likes the way he makes her look like a … Continue reading A Million Shades of Green


In between war and peace, there is a space where words like ceasefire float around as though they mean something more than pause. For me, a ceasefire is like a Stage IV cancer diagnosis. You know it’s something you’re going to have to deal with. You just don’t know how long you have to brace … Continue reading Ceasefire

Taking a Stand for Sarah Tuttle-Singer

This is a sacred space. It is my quiet - where my thoughts flow across a clean, white screen with no smudges and smears. It is a private space with a door opening to the outside allowing others to peek in within the safety of words drawing boundaries with their intimacy. I write boldly about … Continue reading Taking a Stand for Sarah Tuttle-Singer

Dry eyes

My grandmother ran out of Poland towards Russia with only the summer clothes she was wearing and spent the next five years seeking warmth in a world that had frozen over. I was raised on her story, as well as all the stories of my generation’s grandparents. We were their proof that it had been … Continue reading Dry eyes

When There Is Nothing Left To Say

There is so much I could say...so much to write about... I could write about my sister...and her cancer...and what it feels like to be so far away...to be torn between my children and the baby I held in my arms at 14 years old...whispering my secrets to one of my only family members who … Continue reading When There Is Nothing Left To Say

Our Dying World

The world is bleeding. She is heaving her last breath...convulsing in pain...as she tries to heal wounds she doesn't know how to lick. She has been beheaded...stabbed...shot... She had been blown to bits...burned alive...ravaged... She has been raped...sold...defiled... She has been trampled on...spit on...stoned... She has been through every imaginable torture...and even more unimaginable deceits... … Continue reading Our Dying World

Skin Deep

"Imma," she says in her 'I'm going to tell you something incredibly insightful now so you better stop what you're doing and focus and make sure your phone is on hand to record this' voice, so naturally, I turn. "I know you're not going to believe this, so I'm telling you now you have to … Continue reading Skin Deep