Let’s stop the crying, Millie. It’s true our friends are dying. They’re old like you and me. Why not celebrate instead that 80 years ago you and I

As autumn turns colder there’s only one moth fluttering at midnight around the porch light. He’s the last of the flock

Sometimes you sit for days sucking yourself in praying the right words will fall in your ear toboggan over the whorls

Jack’s a widower. His wife died years ago so every year he takes a plane and helps his mother decorate his childhood home for Christmas.

Deep into a warm winter the Japanese red maple keeps her crown of brilliant leaves as if to prove to the evergreens especially that big blue spruce

They’re widows, old and gray, bent over a quilting frame, sewing to meet a deadline for the next raffle

It’s not de rigueur to believe he’s there behind the sun, the stars, the moon watching us

It was nearly midnight and I was driving home after a long day when I realized there was no cat food in the house and I would be facing the same trio of feral cats bright and early at t...

No more nudes in Playboy according to the anchor on the Nightly News. Playboy has declared nudes passé because

You take care now, Harold, and don’t slip on the ice looking for a good bookstore on the streets of Chicago. Print is dead, Harold,

Every day the same play. The moment I rise, the first act begins, the same plot

We’re equal we agree in the eyes of someone Fred says isn’t there and I say is and we agree

Never speak ill of the dead, his father always said, and his father was a pastor who preached from the pulpit. That’s why whenever

Inferno of a summer day Mother’s dozing Tommy, tiny, three, paring knife in hand tiptoes out, flops