I find myself inexplicably drawn to certain words. Throughout each day, certain words get stuck in my head and just sit there, nagging at me…like a toddler who won’t give up. Sometimes those words go nowhere. Sometimes,I just write them down and come back to them at some point when they do make sense or can be useful. I came across the word “monochrome” in a reading yesterday. I don’t know where or in what context it was used….but it stuck. I keep hearing it in the back of my head. So, I did what I do….wrote about it.


Shades of black paint my every day.

Grays, muted and stark, saturate each minute.

Hours, weeks, months–shrouded in a sea of ebony.

Vibrancy– a thing of memory, colorful days gone by.

My eyes pick up the various prismatic hues,

but my heart sees none of it.

A widower’s veil clouds everything I do, everything I feel.

Desperate for a magical crayon that will drown out the nondescript

and bring color back to my world.




Locked in a cage of my own making

with iron bars forged by fear, doubt, pain, and tears.

I hold the key to open the padlocked door

but every day the lock changes shape.

Just when I think the key fits and freedom is mine

a dark shrouded locksmith comes along.

He changes the lock and laughs at me

mocking my helplessness, taunting me in the darkness,

Throwing me crumbs of fleeting happiness,

making me believe I deserve the sweet tastes.

He takes every ounce of humanity from my being

and I am left empty once again.

I am my own captor.

Whispering Walls


I spent part of my morning in my old middle school. When I went to school there in the mid-80’s, it was not in very good shape. (Honestly, that’s an understatement…seriously!) The district decided to build a new school instead of refurbishing the old building. But, the building was eventually redone and made into a performing arts center/office building. It houses a hospital lab, so I went there this morning to get my blood drawn for some testing.

As I walked through the halls, I caught glimpses of the girl that attended school there 6th-8th grade. As I sat in the waiting room, I heard whispers from the wall of a preteen girl who became a teenager within these walls. The paint is different, the rooms have changed, although the odd, old smells still linger…where is that girl? What would that girl think of the woman that sat in that building 30 years later? Would she be proud? Disappointed?

I remember as a twelve year old girl, that big brick building seemed so intimidating. That transition from elementary school to middle school was frightening. Who was I at 12? Where did I fit in the social hierarchy of middle school? It was within these walls that I came of age—my first kiss, my first dance with a boy, my first heartbreak, the death of my beloved grandfather. All of these monumental occasions happened while I was here. All of these things that made me who I am today.

So, what would that girl think of this woman sitting in the waiting room? I think she would be surprised…surprised that I was still living in small town, Pennsylvania. That young girl was full of big dreams and faraway places. That girl dreamed of coffee along the Seine and walks along the Thames. Actually, I’ve done those things, so she might be proud of that! I think she would be surprised that I have 2 children. Children were definitely NOT on the agenda for her. She wanted a high class, fast lifestyle. That girl knew she was far too selfish for kids.

What would that girl think of this woman I’ve become?

Whispering Walls

I am haunted by the whispers from the walls

of long-ago promises and dreams.

I am shadowed by the figures of whom I thought I’d be

and feel small in comparison.

I am overwhelmed with regret of things left undone

and roads not taken.

I am mourning the death of youth, of naivety

paying respects to the dreams entombed within.

I am missing the vibrancy of the spring

while dreading the coming winter.