My Thoughts

As she followed the detective through the maze of cubicles, Taylor grew a bit nervous.  She had never been in a police station before, and she wasn’t sure why she had been asked to speak with detectives.  She felt like everyone stared at her as she continued, and she quickly catalogued all the recent indiscretions in her life. Feeling embarrassed and guilty, she glanced down as her face flushed and barely caught a glimpse as Samanta left an interrogation room further down the hallway.  She wanted to say something to Sam, but she wasn’t even sure if Sam saw her. “Was that Samantha Vickers?” The detective appeared not to hear the question as he held the door open for her.  Inside was a middle aged woman in an off the rack suit and cheap low heels.  If Taylor knew anything, she knew clothes.  Almost too surreal, the female detective tossed her head slightly and pointed to the empty chair across the table. Taylor decided to play stupid. When Taylor didn’t comply w

I think as educators - and parents - we forget sometimes the true value of the skills that we should be passing onto our students.  We get so caught up in what we want to teach them.  For an English teacher, I get so wrapped up in the stories.  I want to read short stories and novels and to explore poetry.  These are lofty goals, but if students don't possess the skill sets to understand the complexity, then I waste very valuable time. We all search for answers.  We need to find a way to organize all the small, intricate pieces of our own lives. All the crazy parts of a life. "My life, my crazy life - I don't know where to put everything," Paige says to her mother. As children, we should've had toys that allowed us to sort through and then categorize things:  blocks, legos, puzzles, etc.  This skill of sorting and categorizing is extremely important for humans.  We must be able to do this effortlessly in order to function in our society. Imagine a huge

It's been over 3 years since I felt anything close to joy................the last holiday season that I felt excited and optimistic was 2012, and as I pondered that fact this morning, I realized that I had to do a great deal of faking through that holiday.  The sense of joy lingered in the shadows, but it had not completely disappeared. Maybe it's joy I miss.  When I write about missing a person, maybe it is joy. I used to save the little metal round lids on frozen juice containers.  I had a stack of about 40 of them.  In 2012, I decorated the lids with black / white photos of our family members.  The ornaments turned out so cute.  What stands out about the project now is that I didn't even complete my original plan. It's my own fault that joy has left me.  I didn't guard / protect it enough.  Too late did I make it the priority. A friend posted this on FB, and it pretty much summed up what I needed to do instead of dwelling on what I think I may have lost

She knew Quentin would not be home when she arrived.  A check of her many voice messages explained that he would be delayed at a client meeting.  Deandra hated walking into an empty condo, hated those lingering few minutes of absolute stillness ripe with potential chaos.  Her mind played over and over her egress earlier that day. Did I turn on the entry light? Did I turn off the flat iron? Did I lock the door? The elevator ride to the fifth floor was uneventful - only one passenger on at third carrying what looked like a yoga mat and dressed in work out clothes.  It reminded Deandra that several days had elapsed since her last visit to the rooftop gym, and she then added those thoughts to the others swirling, whispering, taunting her already. She had played her voice messages on the bus ride north while making mental notes. Claire's car was acting up again.  Sofia wanted to spend the summer in Texas. Her mom was planning a summer gathering. Her thirty year high school reun

“9 1 1, what’s the address of your emergency?” the call taker asked as he casually answered the phone. “Sam? Samantha?” a nervous voice asked in whispered tones. “9 1 1, what’s the address of your emergency?” the call taker asked again, growing a bit impatient. It was well after midnight, and the phones had been slow this evening, but the call taker was pulling a double and had been at work for over 12 hours. He was not in the mood for a prank call. “I’m lookin’ for Sam Vickers,” the voice trembled. The call taker grunted, “This is 9 1 1. Do you have an emergency?” “Sam Vickers?” the voice whispered. The call taker rolled his eyes and muted his phone. Leaning back in his chair to round the wall of his tiny cubicle, he yelled down the way toward his supervisor. “Someone on 9 1 1 is asking for you, Sam.” Samantha stepped into a vacant cubicle and plugged in her headset. “9 1 1, what’s the address of your emergency?” “I’m lookin’ for Sam.” “You found her. What’s t