Just One More Day

     If I could have just one more day with someone who is no longer alive, I would choose my mother. I was only thirty-five years old when she died. She did get to see my six wonderful children, but they were only five through fifteen years old. I know that no grandmother ever loved her…

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Healing in the Open

     In a bizarrely freak accident in a car wash, my car ran over my left leg and stopped on top of my knee. The car was rolled off my leg, and I was taken to a trauma center for immediate attention. Miraculously, there were no bones broken, but I did sustain a monstrous wound that…

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Going Back

I am perched on the verge of a pilgrimage back to my roots. These roots do not go as deep as those of my birth, But Uruguay is, nevertheless, the earth from which these seedlings sprang, Becoming shoots that would grow into the person I would become. My parents never planted their feet on this…

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Family Photos

     The family photos of my early childhood were the substitute for my extended family of real people. There was no photo album . . . just a blue leather purse about the size of a small notebook. It was piped in white around the edges, and it was always kept in a drawer in the…

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Berta’s Longer Story

What next?  What is next for me and my family? How much more can we endure?      Those are the thoughts my mother may have had as we flew from Uruguay to the United States after World War II had ended.  Vienna, Austria was her home when, six weeks after she had given birth to her…

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Aunt Rosa’s Apple Strudel

     Aunt Rosa was my mother’s sister, and she lived with us most of my growing up years. I was the youngest member of our extended family, so I was home with Aunt Rosa while everyone was at school or at work. The most magical food I watched being prepared in my childhood home was apple…

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