At sixty-six, I had gotten very used to my life. Not in a bad way. In a relieved way. My husband Marc and I had a good life. A middle-class life. Predictable, routine, sometimes even boring, which at this age I had come to appreciate more than I ever did when I was younger. Coffee in the morning. Meals at regular times. Bills paid, more or less. A house that felt lived in. A husband who is kind, steady, and regimented in ways that used to amuse me and now mostly comfort me. Marc is seventy-three. He likes order. He likes things where they belong. He folds towels neatly, keeps track of what needs doing, fills the car with gas before it becomes urgent, and notices when I’m worried even before I say anything. There is something deeply loving in the way he moves through daily life. Not flashy love. Dependable love. The kind that makes a life feel held together. And I was happy. Or maybe content is the better word. Either way, I wasn’t looking for upheaval. But ...
I write to remember, to question, and to connect. Here you’ll find essays, stories, and fragments of life — all the ways I try to make sense of the world, one sentence at a time.