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Dropping our bags, we free our feet from shoe prisons and survey the room. Beige walls, tan carpet, white sheets. Nice, nice, we say, patting the beds and looking for open outlets.  We espy a small balcony through the slats of the window blinds and hope for a glimpse of the final rays of the day.

We swing open the back door, then fall back on our heels, blasted

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Rivers pour off me as if I’m in the shower, but my own pores fuel this deluge. My lungs strain to wring oxygen from murky air thick with sweat and smoke. My eyes squint to discern the faintest

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Not-So-Happy Hour

Today a well-meaning friend delivered news so heinous that I would have taken to my bed, had I not already been lying there,
avoiding the day.
“Popular Beer and Wine Brands Contaminated
with Monsanto’s Weedkiller, Tests
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New Rules

Scurrying down the sidewalk, my yoga mat bag bonk, bonk, bonks me in the hip as I trot. I’m late for yoga class as usual, and I groan when I see an ad for a local shop loitering in the gutter. “Sorry, I can’t pick you up,” I wheeze to the moldering litter. “I’ve GOT to make yoga class today, I’m under strict orders,” I explain.
Passing over litter in the street pains me as much as reading a
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Start With Hello. . .

Hugging my children a little more tightly today . . . again, today. The news of the latest school shooting brings hot tears and well-worn, knee-jerk reactions. But my heart urges me to resist the temptation to jump into the angry fray. Not that I’m not angry. I’m shaking with white-hot rage. The first draft of this post consisted entirely of effing eff eff eff eff eff. Except that I didn’t say eff.

It’s just that I know what little

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  © Cheryl Leutjen