Another 5 Word Story

Story of an Aging Woman--Told by an Aging Woman

“Say it isn’t so,” I think as I examine myself in the mirror. And yet, no matter how hard I wish it weren’t true, it is. It is, indeed, another gray hair. They’ve been popping up like weeds in fertilizer lately. For as much as I loved being a raven-haired beauty for the first thirty plus years of my life, I curse it now. Of course, I couldn’t be granted the unique silver streaks that tell of aging gracefully. I have the misfortune of stark white coming in non-uniform clumps throughout my head. My natural hair part acts like a bulls-eye, and in case you don’t notice that, it also frames my face at the cusp of my hairline, making ignoring it completely impossible. This reality check makes me study my face for other tell-tale signs of age. There are plenty. Not just my face, but I’ll get to those later. My eyes are sinking back into my skull creating an eyelid overhang that would perplex the finest architects contemplating a canter-lever design. Some would say this is a mi

Liminality

Allison was touched with the turnout for a Tuesday. She stood motionless, trying to understand it all. Her senses were amplified in a strange and peculiar way. The people around her seemed to be focused on their own tasks, going about them as though they were the only ones faced with this reality. There were a few men, one or two with a cane in hand, carrying plastic planters full of mums, headed to their marked destinations. Several women, with their balled up tissues occasionally dabbing at their eyes, were kneeling as if praying. Their somber faces exposed their own journey. Off in the distance, a backhoe could be heard breaking the ground, trying to perform its task with as little disruption as possible, unsuccessfully. The smells were a mixture of both fresh and stale, crisp air mixed with corn rotting on the stalk from a nearby field. It was too early to be called autumn, but too late to be considered summer. She often referred to that time of year as the beginning of

Diary of a Mom at Christmas: An Emotional Journey into Madness By: Nicole Heim, said Mom

Parking outside of my childhood home, hunkered down in my car, with a box of tissues ( why did I not splurge for the extra soft, is a question I will struggle with for a long time as I nurse my chapped nose), I once again wonder what all of this is for. It’s December 19--six days before Christmas. For not the last time (and certainly not the first that week), I wondered how I would survive the next few days. I did not get here intentionally, as few mad people do. What started out as a true willingness to help others, a wanting passion for tradition, and my insatiable need for achievement, coupled with my foolish optimism and talent for procrastination, created the perfect calamity. My desire to know I am not alone inspired me to keep this journal of descent. Please read with a dose of humor, a lack of judgment, a whole lot of empathy, and perhaps a glass of wine. Thursday morning, November 24. Thanksgiving Day. Today is the official start of the holiday season. There is

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