Write Here, Write Now

*Dedicated to my Grandmother Joan Kosmach* Four legs. One solid-wood top with an extra leaf inserted to ensure everyone would fit. Eight chairs. One side faced a faded red-brick wall, the former outside of the house before the family expanded and so did the game room. The other side was backed by leafy green plants hanging in front of large windows that over looked the best backyard around. This table, Grandma's table, was the heart of our family. It was at this table where I grew up. This table taught me to play Sorry, Park and Shop, and Uno. This table seated the audience as my cousins and I sang our renditions of classic Christmas carols from the small step up into the kitchen. This table developed my love of fresh, half-sliced grapefruit piled high with sugar, Corn Pops (no milk), and brussel sprouts-a food my own mother would never dare to cook. The table told me stories of Slovenia, my family's hertiage, and let me watch as my grandmother rolled thin dough covered i...

"THREE".... NO, NO,NO,NO,NO.NO....OH MY GOSH. He can't jump off the rocks into the deep end, he's too little!   "TWO"... I can't look.  I have to look. I can't look. I suddenly realize that I've been holding my breath and become vividly aware of the rapid pounding of my heart.  That's my baby up there standing tall, bursting with pride, holding hands with his two older cousins and NOT. WEARING. ANY. FLOATIES. How did he even get up there?!?! Swimming without floaties is one thing but jumping off the rocks into the deep end is completely different.  What was I thinking?  Why did I agree to this!  He NEEDS his floaties! I know he's been in swimming lessons since he was nine months old, but he's only three.   He's not ready for this yet!  Maybe he can try again next summer but  not now .  "William, get down!"  I yell anxiously...just a second too late. "ONE!" the three amigos shout in unison.  I leap up fro...

Overwhelmed with a feeling of sadness, I stare up at the rubble piled along either side of the street.  The staunch smell that fills the air makes me gasp for breath. Wishing I had a mask to cover my face, I walk towards the make-shift command post at the end of the cul-de-sac.  Helicopters steadily beat overhead, knowingly caring people to safety. This is not a war zone.  This is Houston…post Harvey. I nervously approach the “headquarters” and await orders.  This is not what I had envisioned at all when I baked cookies for people in my unflooded kitchen this morning.  How could I have been so naïve? Chaos- albeit organized chaos- ensues around me.  People are moving every which way like bees swarming around a hive, shouting orders, grabbing supplies, taking down the names of those in the greatest need. “Where is my husband? I need to see him to feel some sense of safety.” I selfishly think. I look left.  A man hops in his diesel truck which has b...