No, bad Anna. No picturing things that sparkle. Or flex. Or resemble any romantic kind of anything with Dylan.

Who do youThink of meTake me forTruly see me? Am I a pawnPart of the gameAll being fairIn the name of love? Am I a mereCasualtyPolitical gainWar and ideals? WomanhoodDeeply desiredStrived forBy boys Wanting to shedTheir skinCasting asideIdeals of men As if chivalryA true gentlemanEradicatedAs it must be The only wayIf one shouldSurvive inOur world ...

I straighten from my perch against the van and step closer to him, standing toe to toe. But not a battling toe-to-toe like with Mrs. Song. This kind is different. Heavy with emotion, a brimming glass ready to spill over.

Powdery white sand shimmers its quartz in sunlight stars twinkle on ground   Singing cardinal joins the drumming woodpecker branches take a bow   Fluttering pupa amidst the dense, tall sand dunes dotted flowers bloom   Sliding waves ashore bring seaweeds, grasses, and more crabs party with bugs   Diving pelican grabs grub by its ...

Warmth bubbles in my chest, like a package of my boys’ Pop Rocks found their way next to my heart.

Born an hour ago, or Day before. You’re One month, or A Hundred years old. Come out and Play.   On March 18th, my friends in neighborhoods around the globe will celebrate Holi. Trays of bright-colored dry powder, Buckets of water, Water-filled balloons, and Golgappas, samosas, gulab jamuns will adorn the tables.   Rules will ...

The memory of Dylan’s laughter escapes from my mental locket. I can imagine his eyes crinkling, the gray brilliant with humor. His smile curving upwards and making his face almost too beautiful to look at.

Daddy O Dad, you spoiled me. You said nothing when I ran the red light. Your patience was unbearable. I wanted to jolt you and ask, “How do you stay a saint in the midst of strain?”

Recently divorced Anna Waite is learning to appreciate life after first love. This is her coming of middle age story.