My Norwegian grandma's favorite were yellow roses. Her's were heirlooms: thick trunks and upright growth with beautiful yellow roses the size of saucers. My closest ones are buttery and small. I still search for her yellow roses...
When I was younger, I lived in her home for the time I was in college. There was the comfort of familiarity and the fear of the unknown, which makes me think today that many of us are ever uncertain of what we're doing.
When I was younger, my gay friend Patrick repeatedly photographed me. We never discussed his gayness. We were vital and alive, and laughter and common experiences were our connection. Summers were free, or more free, at least. I loved him - still think of him - and his folks, and wonder where he is all these 40+ years later....
Here is another I love, in 1953, after an especially difficult battle in the Korean War. Look. Just look. Tell me you don't love him, too.
All that crochet work for the Million Woman March led me to - mmmmm - bracelets and necklaces. Like these:
Come summer, I'm hoping for words. And until then, spread joy and be kind to each other.
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