Tag: Maya Stein (Page 2 of 2)

Washing the black VW Bug in the driveway on a hot summer day with gray, sudsy water pouring down my arms, my squeals of delight when my grandpa sprayed me with the hose.

Sitting on the dirty top of the work table in his greenhouse while he potted geraniums to sell to coworkers and neighbors, the feel of his hands over mine when he showed me how far down to press the seeds into the soil.

Hearing his breath hard and fast in my ear while he ran beside me holding onto the back of my bicycle, and that whooping … Read the rest

I won’t be one to get standing ovations or trophies, and I’ll never have the key to any city, but I will wait here in my superhero pose until you pay me your attention because I am doing something here, you should see me.

If you come to me I will feed you and clothe you, I will listen to you (because that’s what people seem to need the most), I will make sure you have a warm place to go when I send you on your way, and I will never ask for or expect a thing in return. … Read the rest

I’ve already lived a million lives in different bodies and places and times, and now I’m on the downhill slide, ready to try it all again.

Will I do better next time at appreciating everything offered to me, or will I once again drown under the weight of my regrets?

I’ll still cry over every mountain I haven’t climbed, every ocean I haven’t touched, and every starry sky I didn’t dance under, but at least -and only just once – I got to dance with you.

This was written in response to Maya Stein’s Tri-Writing prompt: How old do you … Read the rest