sea salt

Why would a woman ever bother telling her #MeToo story in public? What would be the point? Why relive things that were painful, confusing, or embarrassing? Why air dirty laundry or rehash old mistakes? Why risk being disbelieved, looked down upon, or (for many women) retaliated against? There's nothing to gain. The woman telling her story never (ever) wins, because the memory is always there. This is why it's so important to listen closely when women are brave enough to say, "To hell with it," and tell their stories. Because if someone is willing to go out on that limb, that ridiculously fragile limb with an angry mob underneath it, there must be something at stake . In our current world, what's at stake is the continuing message that men who sexually assault women can get as high as the presidency with no repercussions. What's at stake is the country continuing to advance people who behave badly, hurt others, and show no signs of remorse, humility, or ...

I was engrossed in a cookbook, marking recipes I wanted to try, when I realized I hadn't heard my daughter's voice in a while. I looked up and scanned the room--we'd come to the library so she could read books and play in the children's area, and she'd been happily playing next to me while I flipped the pages of cookbooks. She wasn't by the big dollhouse, or the kitchen set, or the farm stand toy. She wasn't in the aisles of books in front of or behind me. I left my cookbooks, wallet, and phone and walked around the next row of aisles.  "She's over here," my neighbor said, smiling, as she continued her volunteer job of re-shelving books.  Jolene was sitting in a wooden fire truck toy, busily turning the wheel and chatting to the stuffed animal passengers.  I instinctively put my hand over my heart and exhaled. I hadn't really been worried. After all, we were in the library in the middle of the day in a very safe town. H...

The glider in its prime, September 2015 I sat in the glider in the middle of the living room, instantly feeling calmed and held by the soft grey cushions, the gentle rocking back and forth. How many nights had I rocked in this chair, holding my infant to feed her, to shush her, to calm her back to sleep? How many times had I leaned my head back and dozed, never too deeply for the awareness of the baby in my arms? How many times had my husband climbed the stairs to the third floor of our apartment that hot September, taking on the night feedings so I could rest, sitting in the glider in his own exhaustion, wonder, and awe at the new life in his arms? The infant is now nearly 3 years old, is out of diapers, has her own imagination and opinions on things. Just yesterday she was spellbound by the tadpoles in the lake, imploring them to swim into her little cupped hands, then releasing them immediately "so that they can find their mommy and daddy." Today she saw a dead bi...

February 14 It was Valentine's Day. We were in Paris. It had been the trip of a lifetime, our annual kid-free trip together, and we'd just spent the evening hours wandering the majestic halls of the Louvre. When the museum closed at 9:30pm, we walked hand-in-hand back to our hotel, the undeniable Paris charm surrounding us on every street corner, every brasserie, every puddle reflecting the lights of the city. Back at the hotel, I checked my phone. It was 10:30pm in Paris, 4:30pm back home. My phone was exploding with text messages. The first were from my sister, who lives in Coral Springs, FL, near my parents—the city I where I grew up, five minutes down the road from Parkland: I scrolled through the responses from my other sisters and mother, each reacting with horror and grief and shock—the shock that comes not when an all-too-common mass shooting happens, but when it happens to your community. We turned on the TV in our hotel. Only three channels were in Eng...

My kitchen table is technically an heirloom, gifted to me by my grandmother. She kept it in pristine condition, carefully wiping down the tabletop, chair arms and sides after each use. I remember a small white bath mat placed under my grandfather's chair, to catch any food that fell as he ate. It stopped being regularly cleaned the week it was covered in paperwork: the death certificate, old photos, photocopies of letters and documents, my grandfather's checkbook, shopping lists and things to do between my grandfather's final breath and his funeral. Moving the paperwork would have disorganized everything, and my grandmother was too consumed with grief and busyness to pay close attention to the table. Eventually, when she decided to move, the table was disassembled, wrapped carefully in bubble wrap and heavy blankets, and carried into my apartment. It was clean for a long time in my home, save for the faint scratch marks from the cats sitting on top of it, obsessively...