When I was about 8 years old, I discovered my nose. More specifically, I discovered that I could see my nose. I wasn’t looking in a mirror, I was standing on the second base line, or what would be the second base line if I had been playing baseball, but which in reality was a …
“It’s a long stretch of hallway,” I say, hands on hips. “Mhm.” “I wish I had style sense. I’m good at doing stuff, not planning stuff.” “Like painting the hallway? Like fixing the bifold doors on the laundry closet?” he asks, and smiles. “Yeah. I did a good job on those.” I smile back. “What …
The last letter I wrote to her was on pink paper. It was an 8 ½ x 11 sheet of pastel printer paper I had discovered discarded in the supply room. The pandemic was officially a month old and care homes were centres of outbreaks. Spring was ruffled with beautiful blossoms and Gram was constantly …
Families with trauma make interesting patterns. Families with Tourette syndrome in every member speak of genetic trauma to me. I hear of families where one child is diagnosed and parents and siblings struggle and embrace and champion the neurological differences in their outlier. But what of my family? All of us are the outliers. To …
“It’s a nice case. Slim, pretty.” “Nope.” “Okay, how about this one?” My husband turns the screen to show me a sophisticated phone case he wants to add to the online cart. “I will destroy it. And the phone.” He shakes his head and picks up my new mobile phone. “Wow. I can’t believe how …
It’s called a Giant House Spider. The problem is that I don’t have a giant house, so there was no room for both of us. He had to go. I had the strange feeling that I was being watched while I dressed for work. The creeps. But the creeps are nothing new to me, especially …
I find myself in bed and it’s still light outside. Granted, it is mid-June and the sun refuses to set at a decent hour. But the hour is still in single digits and I realize I’m lonely tonight. The house is empty and large. My darling husband is away at a conference and I always …
“Oweeee.” “Seriously, Lori?” “What?” “Let’s break this down,” says my husband, eyeing me over a glass of club soda, which he hands to me. I take a few gulps and burp. “Can you spare me the root cause analysis this time?” I ask. “Humour me.” “Gah!” I roll my eyes. “Fifteen minutes ago you said …
I’ve often wondered if I can call myself a writer even if I have never sold my work. I’m often described as having a “gift for words”. My husband calls me a Wordsmith. The reason this comes up is because lately I have suffered from Writer’s Block. But if I am technically not a writer, …