by Andi | Nov 29, 2010 | Andi's Book
A small copper box with a turquoise mica top. A tiny copper oil bottle that buckles when I press my thumb on the bottom of the well. A heralding, copper angel. A copper tea kettle. A copper apple mole for cooking something I could not even begin to identify. A copper... by Andi | Nov 27, 2010 | Andi's Book
I am sitting in her chair. The yellow and orange stained glass window that Wayne Cain made as Dad’s 40th anniversary present to Mom beginning to catch the light behind me. I have my pen and paper here in this laptop. Books sit beside me. I feel comfortable, and... by Andi | Nov 25, 2010 | Andi's Book
Mom passed away at 4:30 this morning. Dad woke me, and I rushed to her. I laid one hand on her chest and one on her face. She was not there. In the way of life’s pain, I lost another of the most important relationships in my life. Now, he is not here either. I... by Andi | Nov 24, 2010 | Andi's Book
What am I supposed to do on the night I am told my mom will probably die – “Hours. Probably tonight or early tomorrow,” the nurse said. I am not supposed to have this information. So here we are. My brother is sleeping so that he can stay awake... by Andi | Nov 23, 2010 | Andi's Book
When we walk outside these days, we still whisper for a while. We talk low, even though the breeze and the birds and even the lingering whine of distant tractor trailers drowns our own words. We are so used to the quiet of the walls and roof that the open air...