Long ago, there was a beautiful movie entitled Mask. It is a biographical drama about Rocky Dennis, a boy with lionitis, and his free-spirited mother. In the final scene, we hear a voiceover of actor Rocky reciting a poem written by the real-life Rocky: Continue reading
To say this is an odd time is an understatement. Better adjectives might be strange, bizarre, or surreal.
Exhibit A: Olivia is sitting on my desk. The last time she sat here voluntarily was at least a decade ago. Granted, I lifted her up since she can no longer make the leap, but she’s stayed. Continue reading
I’ve been working out of my home since 1997. Last year, I applied for a job that would have required me to work in a regular office. You know, the kind where you dress like a professional, show up at a particular time, and deal with co-workers.
This was not a selling point. Continue reading
Yes, friends, it’s true: I shall reach the exalted age of sixty soon. Very soon. Very.
Recently, I watched an episode of “Sex and the City” in which Charlotte announced that she was not going to turn 36 on her birthday because “I’m just not where I thought I’d be at 36, so I’m sticking at 35.” Granted, she was in a tough spot: her marriage had crumbled under the stress of infertility, and her efforts to resume the career she’d paused for babymaking had proven fruitless. Still, it set me to wondering: am I where I thought I’d be at 60? Continue reading
P. Jo Anne Burgh 