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inner voices; comments on the cosmos
inner voices
 
he promised -- in sickness and health; by carole moore
Sayoko, 71, was once an accomplished cook, famous for her cakes. She was also skilled at knitting, turning skeins of wool into art. But life is much different now. Bert gazes at the woman he married in 1960. Her lank white hair hangs down over her face. She shuffles over and places a plastic spoon and fork on the table, then leans down and opens and closes the Velcro straps on her shoes. "She can do that for hours," he says, speaking of the exercise in Velcro. Sayoko's other favorite past time - endless moments trying to pull the flowers from the printed sheets in their bedroom - is just as futile. This is not the woman he married.
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an angel to watch over me; by diane diekman
The words "beautiful" and "love" were part of Cody's daily vocabulary. He sprinkled I-love-yous on everyone he cared about. My sister asked Cody's kindergarten friends to write farewell letters, and it's amazing how many "best friends" he had. Many of the children drew pictures, usually including a figure with yellow hair. I've given eulogies for sailors who worked for me, but I never expected to do one for a member of my family. And the youngest member, at that.
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on being a ya-ya; by edwina king lewis
When my mother grew too weak to care for herself and moved in with my family, my special "Ya-Ya" friends were there--in love and spirit. When she died, they filled my soul with messages of comfort, consolation, prayer and expressions of the truest kind of friendship. These friends became, in the most exquisite sense of the word, my best friends, and they're awesome.
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petals and pages; by charmian christie
A cherry tree grew outside our kitchen door. It once filled my childhood with fruit and fantasy. At ten-years-old and full of "Anne of Green Gables" whimsy, I transformed the tree into a reading nook. Book in hand I raced through the kitchen and out the door. I wanted to read in the blossoms, even though the book dug into my stomach when I sat up. I soaked up the sound of the breeze in the leaves. I memorized delicate white petals blushing into pink. Ants crawled about, a bee whizzed by. It was as if Monet had painted that tree and placed me in it. "Girl with Book in Tree" he would have called it. Every petal, every leaf, the perfectly curved limb. And a mother who let me be.
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