This blog is a reflection of my unpredictable journey through life, full of Dreams, Humor and Surprises! I write poems to heal, prose to consolidate my thoughts, and stories to entertain. I like to write about love because it’s a beautiful thing that everyone seeks. Whether you're looking for a comforting read or a burst of laughter, my blog offers a little bit of everything, as I navigate the wonderful chaos of life. I share insights on parenting, poetry, health, fitness, and more. Feel free to reach out!
A chair stands on four legs, not two (it would topple), not six (too heavy, too crowded). Four: graceful and balanced.
Obedient lumber, bearing their weight. Mute. Pushed, dragged, stacked. But its comfort wasn’t enough. Humans craved labor.
So they harnessed a horse: a living engine steaming in the sun, lean muscle and stentorian breaths, groomed and geared. Yet, its flesh grew tired, the horse’s pain inconvenienced men.
So they built a machine: pistons for lungs, steel for bones, engines for heartbeats— a restless body with no tears.
But a mother remained: straining on two legs, bearing like a chair, laboring like a horse, loaded past capacity.
Author’s Note: A sunset got tangled in street cables above the lamps. Not a postcard-worthy view, but perhaps even more beautiful. What’s the point of faraway wonders before exploring your own backyard?
“Hello,” I answered, shutting the trunk of my car. “I think Nellie broke her arm. She fell from a structure on a playground, and she can’t stop crying. Where are you?” he asked, urgency spilling through the phone.
In the background, I heard my daughter screaming at full volume. It was the most devastating roar I’d ever heard from her—deep and loud, like a whale, but screechier. I felt a sudden rush of heat, as if someone had poured boiling water over my head.
Damn. She’s hurt, I thought, starting the engine. I gripped the wheel tight and took off.
“I’m in the car. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I forced the words out through my tightening throat. “We’re waiting for an ambulance,” he said, his tone mirroring mine. “Hurry,” he added, and hung up.
My heart was pounding. I accelerated, but soon got trapped behind an old lady driving fifteen miles per hour in a thirty-five zone. I followed her while Nellie’s cry echoed in my head, louder than the speakers in the doors. How badly is she injured? What if she fell on her head?
For a few blocks, my thoughts raced at the speed of light, while my car crawled like a turtle. I was tempted to honk, but this lady probably was too old to hear it anyway. My frustration boiled inside until Granny stopped at a red light, nearly rear-ending a white Mercedes. I swerved to the right lane, hoping to pass both cars when the light changed. A few long seconds later, I finally got the green. I hit the gas like I was auditioning for Fast & Furious—minus the fancy car.
I looked into the mirror to see if I had enough distance to change lanes, but then I saw… a hairy arm and a middle finger coming out of a white Mercedes! Like a reversed palm tree flipping me off from the jungle of traffic. I tried to ignore the gesture. My daughter’s screams still resonated in my head so, surely, I could not care less about an asshole in a Mercedes. Yet, I was pissed. Pissed and frantic.
I wanted to be with my daughter. Shit. I was pushing past fifty! A speeding ticket now would kill me. No way, I couldn’t afford to lose a second.
I stopped at a red light and saw the white Mercedes slide up to my right. No more palm trees waving. He must’ve thought he’d lost the race to a blonde chick in a dusty Subaru, now idling for a rematch. Then the window began to roll down, revealing Mr. Asshole with dark shades and an even darker attitude.
He shook his head, adjusting his flashy glasses (or just showing them off in the most ostentatious way), looked at me, and spoke: “You couldn’t wait, could you?” Wait for what? I thought. But I hadn’t said anything—not for another three seconds.
Then I took a long breath and said two precise sentences, both of which would’ve made my mother gasp and a pirate proud.
I watched his jaw drop, the black stubble blending into his black T-shirt.
I stared at him for a moment. Still. Then winked. “Nice talking to you. Drive carefully.” The light changed and I drove off, leaving behind a faint, fading ‘Oh, uh…’
When I finally got there, I saw an ambulance driving off. Red lights flashing, siren wailing. My stomach turned.
I followed them to the hospital. Doctors confirmed: My angel broke her wing.
Atop my heart, where its two hills bend inward, lies the valley.
You sit astride— a stubborn knight, neither advancing, nor dismounting.
Why do you remain?
I never invited you, fearing your sword, its blade honed on our silence. I left the wicket ajar— a slit to watch you— watching me.
But three kin torches at my gate— scorched your sight, ignited your fear. You fled like a coward, left my depths unclaimed. Your halberd scraped my hollow; its echo—a cathedral bell, tolling the coarse-silk wound.
Or is it me— my longing—a magnet latching your armor, stabbing me?
It’s me. I refused to let you go. I stranded your ghost in this valley. Its shroud blinds me.
Author’s Note: I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.
If I revealed my raw self to you, peeled the makeup, stripped the cloth from my body, Bare— unfolding every crease carved in silence by time— the eternal butcher, dragging a dull blade across my skin.
Would you meet my eyes, lock them in yours, and embrace all I surrender? Or would your gaze slip, chasing youth in someone else?
Would your fingers trace the map my face has become, my eyes—Sirius at midnight— guiding you into the gorge where I’ve buried all my love?
If you leaned closer, beyond the façade of scars, you’d hear the crackle. Would you let its warmth burn through your defenses?
Yet, if you falter and turn away, my heart—a resilient pendulum, will endure stabs of every sway. With or without your love, in all that I am, I will remain.
Author’s Note: This piece took nearly a year to complete. It demanded brutal honesty, many attempts and revisions. It’s about aging, the courage to face it, and the fire of love that refuses to die—even when love itself has long been buried. For anyone who’s felt this way: this is for you. Only a few will understand.
I’ll probably tweak it again someday, but for now, this is it.
Would you let your child sign a contract with a corporation that profits from her/his image, tracks their location, collects their data, and limits your ability to sue in court?
No? Then, you must understand what happens when your child begins to scrolls.
One click = a legally binding contract.
That’s all it takes to hand over their digital rights and, sadly, yours.
My daughter is almost twelve, and she’s been begging for a phone. “Everyone has it,” she says. But I grew up without one, so one question keeps bugging me: Is my child old enough for what’s coming through that screen? Because, let’s be honest, a phone today isn’t just a device to make a call. It’s an admission ticket to a digital universe! It’s a portal into an adult internet, strangers, cryptic algorithms, and hidden contracts.
What scares me the most is access to the unknown. Even if I forbid certain applications, she will eventually install social media because all kids do! And although platforms like Instagram, TikTok, and Snapchat require users to be at least 13, it’s incredibly easy for children to bypass this rule. Kids lie about their birthdate. No parental verification nor ID checks exist, so one click—”I agree”—gets them in.
But wait, does anyone ever read what they agree to? Most adults never do, so we can’t expect kids to read the terms.
Yet, this one blind click binds them into a legal contract with the platform, permitting the app to access their phone and track their location. Moreover, it limits the ability to sue the company in court, often forcing you into private arbitration, even for potential privacy violations.
Moreover, this “I agree” click opens the door to instant feeds—the content parents may disapprove of: perverse images, violent or sexually provocative clips, and strangers that may influence your child more than we wish for. Sadly, neither you nor your child have much control over the screen. The platform’s algorithm decides what shows up.
Once the account is live, multiple predators have a direct line to your child through comments, likes, or an instant DM. You might think their profile is private, but most platforms still allow message requests from strangers—and your child might not even know what’s safe to open.
The Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act (COPPA) is a federal law that’s supposed to protect kids under 13 from online data collection. Other laws, like consumer protection rules, unfair practice regulations, and even state-level privacy acts, also apply to kids and social media platforms. Still, most platforms aren’t verifying anything, and much of the responsibility lands in parents’ hands.
So, how old should your child be to get a cell phone?
I don’t have all the answers. But if they have one, check it regularly. See what apps they’ve installed. Look at who they follow and what’s showing up in their feed. Talk to them, even if they roll their eyes.
Finally, before we hand over the phone, we need to understand the rules and consequences that come with it. Read the terms. Because once they say “I agree,”—it’s a contract.
It was a mid-summer day. The sky was as gray as a billionaire’s suit, and the sun refused to show its smile.
A pounding echoed through Amy’s apartment. “One second,” Amy called, barely cracking open the door. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, she juggled the door knob and battled her rebel hair with her free hand.
“What are you doing here so early?” she squinted at the familiar face. “Early? It’s almost eleven,” Dan replied, nudging the door open and striding in as if he owned the place. Clearly, he was no stranger to Amy’s apartment or her couch.
“Yeah, but do you remember how late you dropped me off last night? I went to bed at ‘this morning o’clock’.” Amy yawned, trailing Dan to the living room.
She peeked outside, noticing the sky screaming an overcast mess. “This isn’t beach weather, is it?” Amy observed the trees bending in the wind like a morning yoga pose gone wrong. “Nope. Looks like we’re not the only ones hungover. But we can do something else,” Dan suggested, already commandeering the remote.
“Coffee first. I need to wake up,” Amy declared, holding her index finger and heading to the kitchen. “And maybe a bagel?” Dan called, settling into the couch like it was his living room.
“How’s George? He ended up driving Rita home, right?” Amy’s voice floated over the sound of brewing coffee. “Did he? Man, he was smashed.” Dan flicked through channels. “I hate when he drives like that,” Amy muttered. “The party was nuts, and George got totally wrecked.” “Good for him. First big night since his breakup,” Dan replied. “I know. After everything with his ex…” She paused, considering a thought.
“Do you think he hit it off with Rita?” “What?” Dan’s eyes were glued to the TV. “Maybe he’s still at Rita’s?” Amy teased, walking back with two steaming cups of coffee. “You think they… no way. They just met,” Dan scoffed, accepting his cup. “I don’t know, I got a vibe,” Amy smirked, pulling out her Motorola flip-phone. “Let’s see.”
She dialed, putting on her best ‘Rita’ voice. “Hi George, did I wake you? Just wanted to thank you for last night…” Dan’s eyebrow arched in surprise as he listened to Amy’s voice, a perfect imitation of Rita’s, turning more flirtatious with every word.
“Are you busy tonight?” There was a long pause. George talked while Amy was nodding. “We should totally go rollerblading later.” Amy winked at Dan, who was watching her with his jaw wide open. “Great. Pick me up at 5.” A short pause. “Okay, see you then.”
Dan nearly spit his coffee. “He can’t think you’re actually Rita, can he?” Amy hung up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “He’s got a rollerblading date with ‘Rita’ at 5 tonight.” “No way. He fell for it?” Dan laughed loud and hard, disbelief coloring his tone. “This is gold!”
*
George parked his Altima outside a modest single-story house, the smallest on the block, with a well-tended lawn surrounding it. He checked his hair in the rearview mirror and headed for the door.
It was exactly 5 o’clock. He rang the bell and waited with anticipation. “Hi,” Rita greeted him, not stepping aside to let him in. “Hi, ready for rollerblading?” George asked, his body shifting nervously from one foot to another. “Rollerblading?” Rita looked puzzled. “No, I can’t. I’ve got other plans. You should have called earlier…”
George’s face fell as he stood awkwardly at her doorstep, mixed feelings swirling within him.
Both stared at each other in silence for a moment. Something was off. “But you called me about it this morning…” “I didn’t call you today at all,” Rita frowned. Flustered, George apologized and retreated to his car. What else could he do? His anticipation dissolved into a confusing blend of disappointment and embarrassment.
He was about to start his car when his phone rang. “Rollerblading, huh?” Amy teased.
George groaned. “It was you? I thought Emily set me up.” “Nope, all me. Sorry, George, I got carried away. I owe you a big apology—I’ve gone too far.” Amy’s voice softened, yet she struggled to stop laughing. “I can’t believe you fell for this!”
George shook his head, even though Amy couldn’t see him.
“Come over, I’m ordering pizza,” Amy added. George sighed. He couldn’t decide whether he should scream with anger or laugh. He put the key in the ignition and drove off.
Amy and Dan couldn’t stop cracking up as they awaited George’s arrival to clear the air and get a full story.
“You two watch out; just wait for my comeback,” George grumbled as he walked in. “I’m warning you. You have no idea what is coming at you,” he announced, unable to suppress a smile at the absurdity of it all. “I mean it.”
“Good to see you without your rollerblades,” quipped Amy, extending her arms to hug George. “Please, don’t be mad at me.”
“You ordered pizza; I brought beer,” said George with a smile, closing the door behind.
Author’s Note: Meet the real Amy and George—they are actual people. In fact, I’m Amy, and George is my friend Matt. This is the only picture I could find of us from many years ago. We are standing in water, awaiting alligators (at least that’s what the tour guide told us). What you don’t see is the boat on the other side, filled with a bunch of ‘chickens’ too scared to step out, including Dan, who took this picture. And finally, yes, I really did set up that rollerblading prank date. 🙂
Wolverine Lily 