Matters of the Heart

Tonight, I watched both cats sit down at the front door for a few minutes, just like they used to do when they would wait for Shawshank to come through it. And then I burst into tears.

Those first weeks after finding that blue Rough Rider wrapper in the trash were the worst.  It’s understandable.  I’d spent years standing on the slippery rug on a hardwood floor that my marriage had become, afraid to take a step, lest I trip.  Instead of addressing the slickness of the rug beneath my feet, the…

Behold, all the glory of teenage girl poetry. Bask in the glow of its awkwardness.