Written by: Suzanne V. Tanner, Paroma Sen, Amy Marley
Dear From Lemon,
I cannot decide whether to hit on one of you, all of you (Hmmmmmm, Uncle Ralphie?) or tell you my TOW*.
*Tale of Woe
A hot AF babe working in the telemarketing pool on the 14th floor helped me decide. LeAnn started to follow this dope new advice website called From Lemon (that would be you). Immediately she was certain the sad, mixed-up post from someone calling herself IWNE** was actually my (maybe) soon-to-be ex-wife.
**Instagrammed Weddings are Not Enough
Dirty pool, man. I read the post. It…
Written by: Suzanne V. Tanner, Paroma Sen, Amy Marley
Clearly, good vibes and friendship connections have no geographic limitations.
Once upon a time, in real-time, three women writers, living on three different seaboards of this big ol’ beautiful world, formed a bond on a popular internet writing site. We never met in person, yet a synergy was felt from the early days. All as a testament to forming relationships the new school vs. old school way.
As we hung out online and shared stories about various life experiences, we spotted a common theme. It didn’t matter, the specifics on how…
My current ga-ga fest ignited when, on Medium, I first noticed: Woodworkers of the World Unite (WotWU). I hung on those five words, rehearsed the expression, set it to music, devoured the writing, savored the sugar plums dancing in my head.
Not because I ever did or ever will make something out of wood. My craftsperson skills with that medium are nonexistent.
Still, my awe is off-the-scale for talented individuals creating magical and practical objects from a tree. Appreciative. Loaded with admiration.
All sorts of woodworkers, as most know them, are artists.
Yes, my love affair with the words Woodworkers…
You never forget the evening before any Easter,
Hallowe’en, Christmas, or Valentines.
Yet last night,
with Covid prevention and isolation procedures
curtailing most retail therapy,
I was sure this year would
be a miss.
You turn off your reading light
as I head toward my side of the bed.
As you do nightly, you have
partially rolled down my blankets,
preparing our love and sleep nest.
I lift those covers up and then
My laughter is my delight.
You have scattered at least
29 red, foil-wrapped, chocolate hearts
all over the linen bottom sheet.
the clumsy note,
delivered moments earlier,
stuffed now inside a pocket,
my heart mimicked
soda crackers, mashed to a crumble.
Compounded by the appearance
of her child-like handwriting.
Reminders of struggling
I struggled down my street,
eight blocks felt like twenty.
Hallucinations of crawling
part of the way.
My knees were plastered in blood.
Ushered inside by a best friend
she, clutching me with tenacious support.
Yet my bones were snapping
not unlike the way
one imagines biting, chomping,
cracking into that
finally protected tiny bird.
With a frame towering
She walked past his bedroom door and was surprised to hear laughter.
Only last night, they sat together on their sinky-down-cozy sofa, watching the herd violate their country. Americans were attacking America.
They cried together, the Mom and her ten year old. Horrors like this happened elsewhere in this world but never in their own backyard. This is the United States of America. Not a banana republic.
Mom and son are news junkies. They know these things.
‘What will happen to them,” he asked. “Will they go to jail? Will they be fired from their jobs? Will the president get…
What kind of jam is this, he asked.
Seedless raspberry, I answered.
He chewed his English muffin slowly, staring at me. Pensive eyes.
I set the toaster half a degree too high, so periodically, he crunched loudly on some blackened bits. He has strong teeth.
What did they do with the seeds, finally he spoke.
These are seedless raspberries, sweetie.
Another bite and a louder chomp down. That second half was more than a little burnt. I ejected an involuntary muffled squeak.
One cannot grow raspberries without seeds, he continued.
Oh. There are seeds alright, just stored in minuscule organic…
Michonne is my eMentor and idol. You know, the fearless Zombie slayer from the television series The Walking Dead.
Regularly over these past months, I envisioned myself, like the Miche, cruising our city streets, a chained and masked coronavirus shackled to each of my wrists. Unfortunately, the type of zombies out to get us are Covid19 and invisible.
Too bad, huh. Imagine if we could fully see the corona-zombies creeping down our residential streets, burrowing into our bodies, and collapsing our lungs to mush. Would these visuals unify our collective response?
We will never know. The case numbers rise, the…
Sunlight crashed through my window
this morning, cloaked as a
lightning bolt ramming my eyelids
It carried a question:
Inherent goodness in humans,
it cackled in my ear,
Finally, you see the folly
in that belief?
Blinding rays seared my exposed
skin, yet I felt no
Tears rolled down
my cheeks refusing to trigger
My heart, brain, gut, soul
now hollowed out,
those carved pumpkins
littering frost-kissed porches
the end of October.
(On a sunny day like today, they will stink.)
Mimicking an automaton
raising a coffee cup to
my lips, I taste nothing.
Hold the phone. Lemme see if I understand.
You have a chance to charge through the tunnel, toward the light, riding a cleverly disguised hot bike, bring back the cure for Covid, save humanity, and we are talking about a plaid shirt?
Yeah but, I have to look great while doing it. Instagram, you know. I would be happier in a little black dress. Zippered back. Manolos. Maybe we could outfit the bike with a selfie stick? And no helmet. Not changing my hair color either. I want to see if I can get a shampoo endorsement. …