I was baptized in Kindergarten at St. Gabriel’s church on West Vernor Highway in Detroit. I remember how cool I felt with my hair slicked back with Brylcreem, standing tall in my ironed white shirt, tucked deep into my single-pleated black slacks — and Sunday socks, too. To complete the…

I see my dad in front of me, the hospital bed envelops his body, crisp white linens tucked up to his chest, his arms out to his sides, resting on the sheets, palms up. Eyes closed, his mouth shaping an unnatural “O” around the tube pushing air into his lungs…

The Power of These Three Words: I MISS YOU Chapter One: Making Space for Your Grief The tasting, the telling of yesterday’s loss is what woke me from a deep sleep last night. Startled, I sat up in bed, seeing Dad’s face, hearing Dad’s lips shape: “I miss you.” This…

Wanda’s Wonderful Polka Party ! — Picture this: Summer of 1966, Warren , Michigan. My Great Aunt Wanda Hazinski tightens the knot on her babushka and picks up the phone. “It’s time,” she says to herself, looking in the hallway mirror and tucking the ends of the babushka into…

Chapter 1: Selling & saying goodbye to your beloved car is a process. — It’s true. I’m a car slob and provide no apologies for it. I came to this sad realization as I plugged my Sears Kenmore 4.8 vacuum into the garage outlet, snapped in the attachment and pushed the button. I had to assume a weird body-placement position in order to access…

… Gio Evan, a modern-day Italian writer and poet, is adamant in his belief that poetry cannot save lives. Of course, I disagree with him whole-heartedly. (How else can I explain my current-day life and longings?!) But , we need to hear him out. Gio suggests that poetry allows you…