cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
At five foot two, he reaches his arms up to hug me. My arms underneath his squeeze tightly as I breathe him in. He is both familiar and mysterious. Stepping back, I stand still as he studies my face. “Mom, my armpits stink,” he says. “Oh, I’m sure they don’t buddy. Let me smell,” I…
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Waking up is the worst. Not from bed, but from what I can only call “COVID slumber”: the choice I made sixteen months ago to tone down and tune out much of my life in order to shelter in place, as we were told. I, like many others, rocked sweat pants and dress shirts. I…
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