An Offering

Note: The holidays are not happy and filled with anticipation for many people, particularly for the members of the awful 'Parents who have buried a Child' club. I am not looking for pity or sympathy, but I am hoping this piece, written from the prompt 'an offering' at MMWG last week, will add understanding. I want to love this time of year as I once did, and there are still moments that I feel that feeling. However, then there is this reality. Please share and know there are too many of in this club hosted by Grief.

An offering
Don’t cry.  He’s in a better place.  God must have needed him. 
Stupid words from well-meaning people after my son died. Like he was an offering to Heaven. Why anyone thought those phrases would bring me comfort, I will never understand. 
Eight years and six months now my Robbie has been gone, and I still find my heart boarding itself off from feeling too much on an almost daily basis. 
Christmas is coming.  Thanksgiving next week. 
I have been self-prov…

Beautiful Souls

She told me I had a beautiful soul.       She told me it was kismet, fate, that I came to be sitting beside her.       A stranger who sat at the same table in the dessert reception hall following George Takei's sharing of his family story of internment during WWII, has become a part of my story. 

     Last evening, I was blessed to be surrounded by many powerful, beautiful souls. Words escape my grasp as I search for a way to describe how my time at the 34th Anniversary Dinner at Congregation Shaarey Zedek is affecting me. Over 1,800 tickets were sold for this celebration. It was not what I'd expected.       "Why are you here?" I was asked at Table 72. Not accusatory. The woman asking knew who I was, said she'd 'Googled' me when she did the seating chart, said she'd intentionally set my group with the other artists, the people who'd created the video being shown later that night. "You're an author," she identified me. She was c…

What is required...

Lately, I feel that each day something new is 'announced' that breaks my heart, infuriates me, increases the sense of powerlessness. A recent MMWG prompt brought this piece to life.

I would love your feedback.

What is required…to meet their criteria? White. Male. “American” only. Self-sufficient-no relying on their handouts. Nobody brown or black or any other color than white. Only male. Not a male claiming his true gender over how he was born. True. American. Male. 
What is required to be counted, to matter, to meet their criteria of worthiness in our country is too much. Makes me weep as each day’s restrictions are announced. Makes me angry as my empathy for so many beautiful people are deemed unworthy because of color, race, gender, partner, economics. 
What is required to make them see how far from humanity their requirements have moved?


On this rainy morning, a new word in my vocabulary bank. How did I not know this word, a word that describes me so perfectly? I will add it to my author bios: pluviophile-a lover of rain, a finder of peace in rainy days. 
When I was young, my mother would call me in from the branches of my secret apple tree nook when the drops began their descent. Her call was easy to ignore, and I would nestle a bit deeper and watch the sky change hues and try to count the droplets.
As an adult, in charge of my own self, I no longer climb into trees, leaving that to my younger mini-me. However, when I wake to soothing drops on shingled roof overhead, a smile begins even before my eyes open wide. 
Rainy days promise hot mugs of coffee, snuggled in chocolate brown softness of my couch nest, pen in hand, words flowing across the pages. 
Rainy days make for sleepy dogs, peaceful hours of watching the latest novel unfold in my mind as I read hundreds of pages in a sitting. 
Hi, my name is Kristine, …

Mo Rúnsearc (roon-hark) secret love

Mo Rúnsearc (roon-hark) secret love
Lulled by her maid, Aileen’s, gentle brushstrokes upon her thick auburn hair, Maebh sighed and closed her lavender eyes. Sparks crackled with each stroke, bright spots in the candlelit room. She was so relaxed, that Maebh didn’t understand what was happening as her small seaside town’s warning bells chimed. Aileen snatched her by the elbow and hastily shoved her into the small hidey spot used since she was young. After an unnecessary reminder to stay quiet, Aileen scurried to find safety elsewhere. 
Hidden in the recesses of her closet, Maebh watched through a sliver of space as a large, swarthy man moved through her doorway. Though she knew he couldn’t see her, she instinctively pulled back. All Maebh needed to do was wait silently for Aileen to retrieve her once the thieving marauders had gone. 
He stopped in front of the mirrored table where she’d so recently sat, and Maebh saw him pick up her delicate strand of unique pearls. She gasped and clutche…

Book Review: Ghost Boys, by Jewell Parker Rhodes *****


Ghost Boysby
     Wow! This book has been on my 'to be read' list for a while, and last night I picked it up and read the first few chapters before going to sleep. As soon as I woke, the book was back in my hands. It had to be read.      Rhodes has done an outstanding job of combining current social injustices with the historical importance of Emmett Till's story (and the story of so many other murdered 'ghost boys'). Though I am familiar with the horror of Till's murder in 1955 Mississippi, the power of connecting Jerome's new ghost with hundreds of murdered ghost boys, the daughter of the officer, and his living relatives brought it all to new heights.       The changing perspective of 'Dead' and 'Alive' was a punch in the gut, completely brilliant, and necessary. I'm sure that my own personal story made this aspect especially meaningful.       Everyone needs to re…

My First Year without a 'First Day'

Yesterday my alarm beeped at 6:45 a.m. Groggily, I made my way into the kitchen, sleepily turned the coffee maker on, and looked out across the misty morning. It took that long for it to hit me. It was the first day of the new school year. My grin spread wide across my no longer sleepy face. Energy rushed through me. Yes, I was awake, but an hour later than 'normal' for this day. I was up in order to meet a friend out at Brighton State Recreational to ride my awesome horse through the early temps and still freshly spider webbed trails of Michigan.
     All I heard last spring were the warnings of people of how I would be so sad when this day came. As I poured my coffee and made my way to the front porch, I enjoyed my leisurely coffee breakfast as cars on the way to work and buses on the way to Mason Public Schools roared past. I felt like the Grinch must have after he saved the sled overflowing with Whoville's Christmas.
     After a beautiful morning of riding, it oc…