I come from a family that keeps things (on one side) and throws things away (on the other). My mother is the keeper. I believe it has at least something to do with growing up in the war, and the way my Oma told stories and kept keepsakes – especially of
I could start this by saying I’m not going to judge. But the truth is, I am judging. I know I shouldn’t. Because there is a whole story that goes with every person and every situation that we cannot know from the outside. I know this. But still,
This morning on my walk with the dogs I passed my elderly neighbour, Miss Theresa. Her real name is Anne. That’s the thing in the Caribbean; everyone has a given name and a name everyone calls them. Miss Theresa was dressed in a bright green, orange, and white dress.
I’ve slowly been drawn into the World Cup. Which is amazing because I know nothing about football/soccer, and have never been one to watch sports. I was a competitive swimmer and I hardly even watch that. But the TV has been on and it’s been playing in
“We’re not friends. We don’t even like each other. Let’s be honest.” That was one of the text messages that arrived and began a new reality. And if I’m honest, my brother is right. We are not friends. We never have been. I left home when
It’s Father’s Day – or technically it was. It has been over for a few hours now. I am awake. Almost at the same time I was last night. I cried then too, thinking about you. Or rather, your absence. I didn’t know what the day would bring.
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