On Lessons, Lies and Lena Dunham

I am watching with great interest what I refer to as “Lena Dunham Debacle”.   I was a fan, sort of, of hers until recently. I watched-and enjoyed-Girls, and while I am much older than she, I could somewhat relate to the awkwardness and sadness of all she conveyed in the episodes I watched. (I admit I have not seen them all.) And for some time I followed her on Instagram and other social media outlets. But recently, and by recently I mean before her book came out and the shit storm began swirling, I lost interest in her. Her weirdness was no longer unique an authentic, it felt more like spin, like a persona she was trying on, and while at times I agreed with the message that she was trying to send, her methods were grating on my nerves.

This week she is caught up in the weirdness that she has created and cultivated into her brand. With her new ‘memoir’ hitting the stands she is not just a hero to those that sit a little left of center and the spokesperson for a generation that has no clear identity other than that they just are who they are and that should be good enough, she is now sitting smack in the middle of mainstream America. Perched at the number two spot on the NY Times Best Seller List, her book is being read by housewives and haters alike, by fans and followers, critics and cynics across the globe.

I use the term memoir loosely, since Dunham herself calls herself and ‘unreliable narrator’, and claims that she ‘adds an invented detail to every story she tells’, leaving us to wonder if her memoir should be filed under fiction or not. Regardless, she claims these are her tales to tell and her wisdom should be shared with the masses. And, I should add, while many of her reviews rave about her writing skills, her voice and her craft, just as many wonder what exactly she has learned at the ripe old age of 28, and if she has indeed learned anything, as they were unable to find it in the pages of her book.

The eye of the storm that she has brought upon herself is centered around the admissions that she, by most peoples standards, inappropriately touched her younger sister. That she masturbated while lying in bed next to her, and bribed her with candy for kisses. She even goes on to say that that “anything a sexual predator might do to woo a small suburban girl I was trying.”

The media, social and otherwise, the blogosphere, the tabloids and rags are all abuzz with this scandal, and Lena is perplexed and defensive, claiming it is out of context and completely within the realm of normal childhood curiosity. She seems utterly perplexed at what all the fuss is about, and in a odd rant accused the right wing newsies of fabricating the story.

Maybe in her house it was normal-who knows. But here is the thing about memoirs and personal essays, when you hit submit, or publish, post or print, you are opening the door to your house. You are inviting people in to your house, and introducing them to your family and anyone else you keep behind that door. You are sharing not just your secrets, you are sharing theirs, and in doing so you are bringing the storm down upon them as much as yourself.

It is not that I am not a fan of personal essays, I undoubtedly am. I find them cathartic and medicinal. A way of releasing memories and thoughts that so often hold me back, or keep me down. I find writing about something often guides me back to the path I should have been on, helps me find that thing I wasn’t even looking for. But when I write, I am mindful. I am aware that these are my memories, my recollections, and the mind has a way of altering things. The truths we hold in our hearts are often tainted with emotion, weathered with age, fragile and susceptible to embellishment. While I want to exorcise these things that fester in my head, release them so that I can move forward, I find there are things that I will publish, and things that I cannot. There are things that while they are helpful for me to write, would be hurtful for me to post.

I am fans of and friends with writers that disagree. Their raw honesty is amazing to me, but I cannot help but wonder what happens after.   After they publish, after they share, after their mother reads it, or after their children do. Everything we do, or say, or share and post has a ripple effect and we no longer have the opportunity to watch the waters calm into a glasslike film after a time-all evidence gone. Our words are indelible, etched into the Internet for years to come.   When my youngest son Google’s my name years from now, what do I want him to find? What do I want him to learn about me? I can choose (some of) that, I can control (some of) that, but do I have the right to expose my mother, my father, or siblings to the judgments of strangers and worse yet, my children and grandchildren? Is that fair?

Anne Lamott says “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better” and for the most part I agree. I have ex’s and enemies that deserve no love from me, no words of kindness, but what of those I love and that love me? Is it fair to write of their addictions, their shortcomings, their failures, even if it is part of my story? Do I have the right to open the door to their home, and bring out the skeletons in their closet?

Some days I wonder if this makes me less authentic as a writer or as a person, and I admit the balance can be hard. I recently wrote a piece and for the first time ever I let my husband read it before I posted it-it discussed part of our relationship so I felt like I should share it with him privately. Today, it is still sitting in my saved folder. He didn’t judge, and didn’t tell me not to, he just said very quietly, ‘That is so personal’. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not. I was proud of what I had written and it was personal-to me. But all of this is new to me and while I choose grow and heal by writing, I don’t want to destroy and damage at the same time.

I don’t want to filter, I want to own my truth, but with truth comes consequences and this is what I learned from Lena Dunham without ever having read her book. While Lena and her sister and their respective publicists will deny any wrong doing and claim the ‘out of context’ defense and dribble on about normal curiosity (despite the fact that a 28 year old woman just compared herself to a sexual predator), her story is out there and her consequences are just beginning. Just as quickly as she opened her door, she is closing it, telling us to stay out and not examine the skeletons she pulled out of the closet to parade for us, but it is too late. People are looking at her differently; they are discussing her parents, and questioning her upbringing. They are talking about patterns of abuse and signs of molestation. And we will never know the truth-what is going on behind that closed door. What damage has been done to the relationships in her life, with her mother and father, sister, friends or lovers? We will never know if that bit in her memoir was one of those she added fictional details to, or if she was being ironic and sarcastic, a sad attempt at her awkward humor, or if she did in fact molest her sister. We will never know if her sister really is ‘laughing so hard’ or if she will never speak to her again.

The only person that will know the whole truth to all of this is Lena, and it is doubtful anyone will believe a word she says anymore.

Posted in Writings & Ramblings | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

The Love Triangle

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper, 1942. Public Domain

Nighthawks by Edward Hopper, 1942. Public Domain

Katherine flicks the ash off the end of her cigarette absently, her hand shaking ever so slightly. She keeps her eyes on the fellow behind the counter, he seems to be moving in slow motion, and she finds herself mesmerized. She is afraid if she glances over Kent’s shoulder, if she dares to look at the man seated on the corner, she will give herself away.

Outside of her thoughts she hears him thank the young man for the milkshake, a milkshake she neither wants, or needs. A scotch would do wonders right now, she muses. She turns slowly to him, making sure his broad shoulder blocks the view behind him.

“Thank you, love. This is heavenly! And the show, I had no idea Suzette Stanley could dance and sing! It just gave me chill bumps the whole time!”

She could tell she was rambling, and knew her voice sounded shrill in the quiet diner.

“I thought you might like that, I know how much you love her music,” he answers, coming in to nuzzle her neck.

They had danced to her music on their first date. Suzette Stanley’s sultry voice had filled her ears with words she longed to hear and when he put his hand on the small of her back and led her to the floor, it made her all at once feel dizzy and warm. He turned her gracefully into his body, and then they were floating across the scuffed parquet and it was undeniable to her, him, and to anyone else in the room, that she would be his.

“Yes, I still do,” she answers softly, not sure of what she means. Still love the music, or him?

She returns his kiss softly on the cheek, demurely turning away her eyes and her body.

Kent does not give up so easily though. He leans to her, brushing her face with the back of his hand, holding her chin softly and gazing at her with intensity.

Uncomfortable with the moment she brings the milkshake to her lips and wraps the straw in a sly smile.

“You know how much I love you,” he begins, but is cut off by the jarring sound of a chair scraping the floor from across the room.

He turns to look at the man down the bar that he had not noticed before.

Katherine jolts upright. With Kent turned and David standing she can see them both and she feels her heart split right in two. Her love for one and lust for another is undeniable in this small space.

David looks right at her, almost right through her, through her dress, her lingerie and into her heart.

She is struck by the intensity.

Kent turns back to her ready to continue his sentence but she is different. “Are you alright dear, you are positively white,” he asks her.

She blinks and looks for an answer, some time, a distraction to walk through the door but it is 3 a.m. and it is unlikely she will be given that grace. The man behind the counter is blushing and trying to busy himself having caught on long ago to the scene unfolding before him.

David saunters to the cigarette machine in the corner and begins to feed it quarters desperately. He grabs the handle under the Camel’s and pulls to no avail. His anger spills over and he bangs the machine, even kicks it once, blaming it perhaps for the fact that it is not his hand on Katherine’s check tonight.

Kent looks over and calls out “What’s the problem there, fella?”

And the whole room freezes for a moment.

David’s eyes are glued to Katherine, and hers back at him. Daring him, begging him, speaking to him without a single word.

The man behind counter stops mid-wipe of the table in front of him, afraid to breathe, afraid to look one way or the other. He has had fights in here before, but is in no mood tonight. It’s too late, or too early and he is just too damn tired.

Kent speaks again. “Well, what is it pal? You need a smoke? A quarter?”

David is still for a moment. A wicked smirk comes to play across his face. He is teetering on the edge, calculating the options and outcomes. He is suddenly unsure that if he falls on the blade for her, that she will be his reward. If he drops this bomb, will what they have blow to pieces too?

He looks at her for one second more, looks at the tear forming in her eye, her lower lip beginning to quiver. He wants her more in this instant than he ever thought he could, but he can hear now what she isn’t saying.

“Nah man, just a bad day,” he mumbles and pretends to chuckle. “Lost my smokes and my girl, don’t that just beat all?” He laughs again.

The counter man finishes the arching movement he was frozen in, wiping away more than just the crumbs, it seems as if he is clearing the air, the moment.

Katherine looks down and exhales. She wills the tear to disappear and gathers her composure. Her hand nervously reaches out to Kent, rests solidly on his forearm.

Kent is looks at David quizzically, still trying to figure him out.

And then just like that, it is over. The air is cut by the sound of David’s footsteps crossing the tile. When he opens the door to leave a whoosh of cold winds its way up Katherine’s dress, sending a chill up her spine. As he exits, he turns and faces them both.

“Sorry for any trouble. You lovebirds have a great night,” he says to them.

And then the door closes softly, almost silently.

Kent turns to her and searches her for any comprehension of what just happened, but before he can stare too long she folds herself into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and turning her head to rest on his chest. Softly she starts to hum one of the songs, their song, the first one they danced to.

“Let’s go home,” she whispers, her voice full of longing and need.

Certain that both are for him, he leads her out of the diner and into the stillness of the night.

In response to the Daily Post Weekly Challenge, and my need to write some fiction…


Posted in Writings & Ramblings | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Give and Take/Writing101Day7

The lie lay between them like a corpse. It was solid and cold and immovable. It was the unspeakable thing in the room and it was slowly stealing all of the air from her lungs. If she didn’t speak soon, she would not be able to.

“I don’t know, I just can’t believe….” She trailed off, her eyes wandered around the room looking anywhere but at him, she was pacing, running her fingers through her hair, she seemed frantic.

He sighed. “It was a thing, I don’t even remember it. It was nothing. I said I was sorry.” He sounded exasperated and tired. Tired of saying nothing or saying the same thing over and over.

“I found the keys. I guess I should have known. I mean, they weren’t mine. You gave her keys…” She said it so fast, like she was spitting the words out. She started to shake her head but it hurt so badly. She could feel a migraine building behind her temples- feel the vague pulsing turning into a vice-like pounding.

“She never used them. She was never here. I mean, not really. Not alone, like, like you. She wasn’t staying here too. She just met me here…so she had a key. In case she was early, I guess. Or in case I was late so you know, she wouldn’t have to wait.” He fiddled with his hands, rubbed them on his knees. He was anxious to leave. Ready to be free or forgiven. His speech was slow and lazy. “It was no big deal, I swear.”

“But she was here. She was here in our home. She was in our bed and showered in our bathroom. And she was here, “ she pointed around the room focusing on the sofa, her voice rising in pitch, words tumbling over one another,  “when I came in. She was here, passed out with candles and wine, half naked. She was waiting for you, or, or had you already been here? Did you leave her here??” Her eyes widened when she asked the last question, the last words were shrill, she was almost shouting. She knew. She had not walked in before, but after.

She quickly swallowed, trying not to throw up.

He kept his gaze downward. He knew there was no point in denying. There never was, she had him dead to rights-again. Now it was just the waiting. The crying, the curiosity, the questions, and then she would silently give up. She would stay. She would look around and refuse to give up on this little story she had created for them-the house, the happy ending.

“I’m sorry, “ he added quietly, his tone deep and husky. It was another lie that would swirl around the room, aimless and empty. He wasn’t really. If he was, he would not have done it, would not do it again. But he couldn’t even promise that.

He finally looked at her. It was odd, he noticed, she was not even crying this time. Her eyes were not wet with tears, they were not pleading with him. They were empty of everything.

“Well, okay then, “ she whispered just loud enough for him to hear. She stood and he thought she was going to walk to him, curl up in his lap and weep. Start to kiss him and undress him, start to touch him and fuck him as though she could both punish him and make him hers in one painfully beautiful moment. He knew her, and maybe that is why he kept doing it; for the aftermath, the punishment.  He loved her more when she was raw and broken, when she was fighting him and demanding him, when she needed him and was desperate for him. He felt his body start to stir.

But then she didn’t. She rose silently, like a cat on the prowl and padded over to him. She leaned down gently, but did not sit, did not cry. She looked at him with pity this time and placed a simple kiss on his cheek. She laid her key on the cushion beside him and turned away. Without another word, without taking a single thing with her, she slipped quietly out the door.

“Wait.” he started, but he could barely hear himself, and there was no point, she would not hear him either.

She was already gone.


Posted in Writings & Ramblings | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Ah, my darling

He kissed my forehead, wiped my tears. I tried to catch my breath, tried to steady my heartbeat, tried to stop the noise.

‘I’m sorry…I’m sorry I’m a mess’, I said over and over.

We’ve been here before, haven’t we…

‘Ah my darling, you’re not a mess, you’re perfect to me.’


Posted in Writings & Ramblings | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Red Geraniums

My grandmother’s house smelled of dust and cedar.  Of Nina Ricci perfume with hints of Johnson’s Baby Powder and Bain de Soleil.  I still smell it.  I still see her salty grey hair, her curls gone wild, her lips never without lipstick, always the color of her beloved red geraniums.


photo by Lewis Collard http://www.lewiscollard.com




Posted in Writings & Ramblings | Tagged , , | Leave a comment


I hope that when he goes it is peaceful. That death will take his hand ever so gently and lead him out into the night. I hope it feels like your first kiss, all butterflies and stardust. I hope he leaves a trail of glitter across the sky to say goodbye.


Written for :



Posted in Short Stories & Prompts, Writings & Ramblings | Tagged , | 9 Comments



it is raining and i am missing you

i can hear the drops echo on the windowsill

they sound hollow and empty

the same way i feel

you should be here with me 

to hear me sigh 

to watch the rain race down the window

to fill the empty spaces 

that are left here without you

Posted in Writings & Ramblings | Tagged | 1 Comment

The Golden Years


Irene stood in the parking lot scanning the rows for her car.  She just stopped in for a birthday card, a quick trip, and now this.  Months ago she had to put a tennis ball on her antennae so that she could find her brown hatchback in the sea of colors and shapes the parking lot held. But it was not there.  She could feel the fear creeping up her shoulders, and tears begin to sting her eyes.  She looked at her watch, it was almost 12:30 and she was going to be late.  She was taking her granddaughter out to lunch for her birthday. Chinese at the little dive she loves-the same place every time.  Sitting together in the big booth they order the same thing-chicken with broccoli and shrimp with lobster sauce-every time. Don’t forget the Shirley Temple!   It was her routine with them, all of her ‘grands’. And now this one would be ruined!

She sighed and started to walk without looking and the blaring horn coming from her left shook her up even more.  The driver, clearly exasperated with the old woman, waved her forward and let her go.   She weaved her way, up one row, and down the other becoming more disheartened with each aisle.  She knew she was getting older, dammit, but did it have to be so cruel? Did it have to tease you and taunt you like this? Did it have to play hide and seek with your memories? Your things? The Golden Years

“Yeah, right, “ she muttered.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” the young man asked her.  He had been just about to get in his own car, and she hadn’t realized she was standing so close to it.  Truth be told, she hadn’t realized she had spoken out loud.

“Oh, nothing, “ she said angrily.  “I just…I can’t find my car.”

The young man looked around vaguely at the near full parking lot.  Then back at her.

“What does it look like? “ he asked a hint of sadness and pity in his voice.

The two of them walked together in between the cars and white lines for what seemed like an eternity.  Irene was desperate to find her car, to sit in the vinyl seat that was molded to her body, to smell the stale carpet and the ashes in the ashtray, to be wrapped in the heat it would no doubt hold after so much time in the sun. She was scared she was going to have to tell her daughter she lost the car again. And have the argument, again, about whether or not she should be driving at all.  A growl deep in her belly reminded her that she was hungry and that her granddaughter must be so upset by now, and she almost started to cry.

Then she saw the tennis ball.  Or rather, the young man saw it and pointed it out to her.  He walked her to her car; she was sure at this point he thought she was batty, and made sure her key turned in the lock.  Once her door was open, she placed a folded five-dollar bill in his hand and slid inside.  She closed the door behind her and sighed.

For God’s sake, I’m only 68, she thought.

“68, “ she said out loud.

It sounded so old once it was out there.  Where had the time gone?  She looked in the rearview mirror and though she knew it did not just grow there over night, her wild grey hair startled her.  The lines around her eyes and on her brow seemed like valleys.  Her lips, in their signature red lipstick seem so thin.  When did this all happen??  She looked into her eyes and saw the years flicker through them like a newsreel.  Dancing with Donald, her love of 45 years as teenagers-he was so handsome.  Her wedding in Long Island and their first apartment in Brooklyn-with that cranky old woman across the hall!   Bringing Elizabeth home from the hospital.  She saw their first home, a mile from the beach, where they would spend the summer days laughing and swimming.  Elizabeth’s wedding and then the babies…all the birthdays and Christmas’, trips to the beach and out on the boat.  They seemed like just yesterday…..

The Golden Years, she thought again.  The irony of the moniker struck her slowly.  Golden: like a sunset, a bittersweet ending to a perfect day.  Funny, she had always thought they said ‘golden’ because they were the best years, the shiny happy days of your life.  Jokes on you Irene! She thought. With Donald gone, and Elizabeth with a full life of her own, the grandkids so busy she was lucky to see them on birthdays and holidays, and her memories starting to leave her, the full weight of her ‘golden years’ settled in around her.

Irene touched up her lipstick in the mirror and blinked away one last tear. She turned the key in the ignition slowly, and drove away.


Posted in Short Stories & Prompts, Writings & Ramblings | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

Knock Knock

Mickey stood up to stretch his legs and looked around.  The hallway was still quiet, dark and cold. He must have dozed off for a bit, but didn’t remember.  He didn’t remember a lot.

He knocked three times faintly on the metal door. “Please let me in, ” he whispered.

Glancing at his watch, he realized he had been out here for hours, and she had not opened the door once. He knew she was in there though. He could hear her footsteps padding across the wood floor every so often.  Hear her shushing the dog when it started to whimper.

He could not even remember now why she was so mad.  He kept closing his eyes trying to recall the night, but there were parts that were just lost to him.  It started out well, a night out with his friends-dinner, a club, dancing…He just couldn’t figure it out.  She wasn’t even there, was she?

“Come on. Open. The. Door.” Louder this time.  He was getting irritated, tired, and a hangover was already pounding behind his eyes.

The neighbor across the hall opened her door a crack and looked out.  She closed it quickly.  He knew she wouldn’t do anything, she never did. No matter what she heard or saw, she never said a word.

He could hear the dog’s nails click on the floor, his nose searching out his scent from under the door.  And then, nothing. She must have come and picked him up.

He knocked three times and waited. Thirty minutes later, he knocked three times and waited.  He was wired enough, he could keep this up all night if he had to.  And he likely would, she was that stubborn sometimes.  He thought about leaving, ending this, he knew he was no good for her.  She deserved so much better. But he couldn’t let her go.  The thought of seeing her with someone else punched him in the gut and made him nauseous.

He closed his eyes and a flash of the night came back to him. Dancing and laughing, kissing her neck. He opened his eyes and remembered he had not been kissing her, it was someone else, someone random.  Had she seen?

Knock, knock, knock.  Every thirty minutes. Two and a half hours now. It was 3am.

“I’m sorry. You know I love you. I don’t know why I do these things.  Please let me in. I am going to sit here all night.”

Silence.  Had she gone to sleep?

Knock, knock, knock.  It was annoying, like a faucet dripping, but that was the point.  Drive her nuts. Wear her down. It always worked.

Knock, knock, knock.

He sat back down on the floor and rested his head on the door.  The steel was cool against his forehead, now feeling like it was going to explode.  He closed his eyes again and remembered seeing her in the parking lot outside the club.  She was talking to some guy.  He sauntered up sloppy and drunk and took hold of her arm. He got in her face and told her to go home.  Go the fuck home, were his exact words. She slapped him.  But the other guy left, and then so did he, satisfied he had ruined her night out.

It explained why he was still sitting out here, that’s for sure. He grinned to himself.

“Open the fucking door, you little bitch.”  He was not loud, not shouting, he said it quietly, menacingly. He knocked again.

Once more he heard the woman across the hall shuffling around her apartment. He wished he felt bad about keeping her up, but it was not his fault, was it?  All she had to do was let him in, and everyone could sleep.

He looked at his watch again.  4:45am. Knock, knock, knock.

“Please baby, I love you. Let me in.” 5:15 Knock, knock, knock.

He began to knock with a rhythm now, still high, still wide-awake.  His head was killing him and his mouth felt like cotton balls had been stuffed inside and he was oddly hungry, but he was not leaving.

He started to sing quietly. He was horribly off key, garbling the lyrics, but he was singing to her.

5:30am.  He could see the light coming from under the door, sunrise through her windows. He knocked again. He whispered I love you one more time.

And from behind the door he heard her sigh.  Heard her click the bolt and open the door.  Her face was tear stained and her eyes red, she had not slept at all.

“I hate you,” was all she said, as she took his hand.  She led him wordlessly to her room, and into her bed.

Posted in Short Stories & Prompts | Tagged , | Leave a comment

The Obituary Writer

Last month I read The Obituary Writer by Ann Hood. To be exact, I listened to it. Since I started wearing hearing aids I have found that music does not sound the same in the car. It sounds tinny and grating, like it is coming out of a blown speaker. And being that the majority of my workday is spent in the car and there is only so much NPR and AM news radio I can handle, I started a subscription to Audible.  I had wanted to find time to read more, but who sits still that long? With kids and jobs and afterschool activities, taking time to read more than the mail was a chore.  Unless of course I am sitting on the beach, in which case the whole world falls away, but I can’t realistically be at the beach every day.  So armed with my Audible app, an aux chord and my work car, for 6 hours a day I get to disappear.  I get to dissolve into another world, another time, and another life.

So, I listened to this book.  And I have found that by listening I feel so much more than I would have by just reading it.  Hearing the inflection and intonation of the characters voices can evoke so much more emotion than if had I just read words on a page.  Being alone in the car with no distractions, no kids in the background, no watching the clock, I am able to focus so much more on the nuances of each character, setting and story.  And I was touched by one of the main characters in this novel and her story.

Vivien’s story is set in 1919, years after she lost the love of her life in the San Francisco earthquake in 1906.  She has inadvertently become an obituary writer of all things. Drowning in her own grief, she is able to wade through it with others, and get a true picture of their loved ones and the memory they leave behind.  She crafts more than just an obituary of dates and accomplishments, she tells a story of a life regardless of how long or short.

An obituary writer.  While I was listening to this story I found it fascinating and so touching.  I wonder what obituary writers are really like, and do they take as much care and time as Vivien did with each soul that they talk to?

‘Tell me about your loved one’ Vivien starts, and she is not looking for dates or schools or promotions and retirements, she is looking for that flicker of life that is still dancing in someone’s memory.  She draws out a story, a smile or a conversation, and brings the dead back to life, ever so briefly so that she can write their story before they disappear forever.

“Obituary writing brought me much more than recognition or awards. When I was doing it, I was a giver. I gave the deceased a stage-center send-off with public recognition of their character and achievements, often one they otherwise would not have had. I gave the dead person’s family my sympathy and then a tangible remembrance for generations unborn.” Jim Nicholson, obituary writer for The Philadelphia Daily News.

It used to be the obituary writer’s job was the low man on the totem pole; the place that journalists started careers, or ended them.  It seems unfair.  I would think you have to put more thought into writing an obituary than an article on the latest store closing or traffic accident.

I find it fascinating and beautiful, poignant and magical. I wonder secretly if it is something I could do. Would I get lost in the waves of grief that would lap at my door ever morning when I got to work?  I think I might. But what an honor, what a gift, to be able to hold those last memories in your hands and lay them to rest with dignity.

Posted in Books Movies and Everything Else | Tagged , | Leave a comment