Denise Marotta Lopes

A Glimmer of Hope

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 2, 2026 category Furry Friends, Gardens, Walks

My recent walks have not been philanthropic. I’ve had to do it, and thus it feels like work. Joe broke his ankle, so the walking of three dogs multiple times a day has fallen to me. I’m cranky and not proud of it.

Recent snowstorms and frigid weather have kept things hidden. Though some things are unseen, they still remain. A recent thaw exposed a used coffee cup, fallen leaves, and a plethora of pine needles beneath a large tree. Things will come to the surface.

The cold weather returned today, reminding me that winter remains. As do the large snow piles that still block access to the sidewalks, causing pedestrians to enter the roadway to get by.

I admit that I haven’t looked up often-enough these days. But sometimes there’s a glimmer of hope in the dried-out grass. Today I spotted it in this crocus, so narrow, so frail, that I was unable to get a clear photo. But it was there and I felt it was just for me.

I sense a change in the air. The earlier sunrise. The tinge of yellow where forsythia will soon bloom. My neighbor digging in her garden. Glimmers of hope.

A Goodbye to a Friend

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 10, 2026 category Stories

I didn’t sleep well last night. Because of that, I arrived at the screened porch in daylight. I prefer to greet the day while it is still dark. When possibilities still lie ahead. When I join the darkness as it enters the light.

No matter what is happening, the sun rises. It always does. The birds still sing and squawk. They call to one another and await a return to their greeting. This morning was not as cold as recent mornings. I didn’t need the space heater, but instead, wrapped myself in a thick blanket, sipped a hot cup of coffee, and picked up my wooden Rosary Beads.

Today, I offered my prayers for the life of my friend, Father George. He died yesterday. The world feels different without him in it. Like something very important is missing. I’ve been visiting him at the retirement home for priests and brothers for over 12 years. For pet therapy, for conversation, for storytelling, and for many laughs.

He is the priest who heard my confession after I returned to the Catholic Church after 26 years. No judgment. Only friendship. Always friendship.

Franklin and I visited him yesterday; we said our goodbyes shortly before he took his last breath here on earth. I thanked him for being such a good friend.

The sun rose today on a different world, but on a good world. A world better for him having lived in it. A world he left, for an even better one.

God-speed, my friend.

The Winter Sycamore

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 9, 2026 category Uncategorized

Stripped to its bones—void of leaves and camouflaged trunk—you see what the tree is made of. With nothing left to hide behind, the sycamore stands tall and proud, despite its lack of protection.

Though harsh winds break its branches, the remaining ones reach higher and stronger. Against the blue sky, its winter white shines, and its spiky seed pods remain, ready to drop at just the right time, prepared to continue its legacy.

Follow the Light

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 30, 2025 category Uncategorized

I’ve taken to walking to Mass; it’s a half-mile from home, uphill most of the way. Joe drives up, meeting me there. He slides into the pew during the first verse of the entrance hymn. We mostly attend morning Mass, but yesterday we decided on the 5:00 pm.

It was mostly dark on my way there, but completely dark on the return home. The moon was half-full, lighting my way past darkened houses, the ones without sensor lights that catch me walking past their properties.

I was reminded of walking to Midnight Mass many years ago with my high school friend, Joanne. I stopped at her house and we walked side-by-side to Corpus Christi Church. It was cold and dark but we had each other. Gradually, almost magically, it began to snow. Not a heavy snow—one in which the flakes caught in her curls. I recall it whenever I walk on a cold, dark night and my heart is warmed.

I continued toward home, wrapping my scarf tighter about my neck, noticing the Christmas lights, the dark houses, and the accompanying moon. I turned into my back drive and found that Joe had left the side porch light on for me. I followed it up the five steps into my warm kitchen.

Author’s Note: I replaced the featured photo with a more appropriate evening shot. (12/2/25)

Yellows, Browns, and Reds

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 13, 2025 category Uncategorized

There is no doubt that fall has arrived—raining leaves, chilled mornings, dry air. It takes me longer to prepare for walks as I add layers under my jacket, stuff my hair into a hat, and wrap my neck in a wool scarf. The labs require no additional care; they are energized by the crisp weather. Stella, on the other hand is bundled in what my neighbor calls her “armadillo” outfit.

When the sun rises and filters through the remaining yellow leaves, it casts a sepia tone on the neighborhood. I am comforted by that. I enjoy the crunch of leaves underfoot, yet grimace at the blare of leaf-blowers casting them into streets or onto other people’s lawns.

Tom’s fig trees are stripped of their leaves uncovering a street sign buried beneath the branches. At both dawn and dusk while darkness is present, there is light at the tops of trees. Only, one must look up to see it.

I will keep my pumpkins stacked until after Thanksgiving. I don’t want to rush through this season to get to the next. I admit it can be hard not to plan ahead, or to fix what’s broken, or to discard what’s no longer useful. But, sometimes it is prudent to sit there a while and sip on that pumpkin-caramel latte and simply breathe.

On my walks, I stop to notice the little things, the inconspicuous things. Those things often hidden in plain sight.

Yes, fall has certainly arrived, and most assuredly, will soon be gone. But I will choose to stay a while and smile at that red leaf before it, too, blows away.

Just in Case

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 12, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

I scrubbed the hummingbird feeder and filled it with fresh nectar over a week ago. Since that time, not one has come. I knew they wouldn’t. I knew they had left, but I did it just in case.

Years ago, when my daughter bought her own house and moved out, I continued to set the table with four dishes, at first instinctually, and then, just in case.

Last times are hard whether we know it’s goodbye, or whether we realize their loss sometime later. When was the last time I held Rockland’s hand while crossing the street? I had taken, for a while, to writing things down—just in case. But now I purpose to notice and simply enjoy the moments.

This morning, I listened to the caws of Blue Jays, sipped my cooling coffee, watched Graycie resting on a chair, and Ivy sleeping on the love seat on my screened porch.

The hummingbird feeder remains empty of visitors while the nearby zinnias continue to flourish. I could take down the feeder and bring it in for the winter, but I leave it a while longer.

Just in case.

The Gives and Takes

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Sep 26, 2025 category Gardens

Fall has arrived and with it less daylight and more squirrels; less activity at the bird feeders and more leaves on the streets. The morning temperatures are cooler and the evening air more crisp. It’s been six days since I’ve seen a hummingbird, but I change the nectar in the hopes it will entice a passerby to come and drink.

I am surprised by the bright colors of the zinnia, typically considered summer hues. The pinks and the yellows glorious in the setting sun. My moon flower has been generous this year; I counted 31 flowers in one night. I marvel at the size of the blooms, given fully for one short night and then curled up to die once the sun rises. For such a time as this.

I’ve taken to an attitude of thankfulness. I walk one of my labs each morning and tend to notice everything. Sometimes it’s the trash thrown on the side of the road; sometimes it’s the weeds on the other side of fences. I feel offended that the people who live on the other side of those fences put their trash cans on our street while their yards remain pristine. I catch myself in this conversation and I tell myself to see the beauty. I notice a volunteer flower pushing its way through a crack in the pavement, the three crows who spend time in the highest tree tops, the bees that enjoy the wildflowers near the gully. In particular, I notice the goldenrod growing out into the street where cars have to move to go around it, and I smile.

Fall gives and it takes away. While we lose warmth and light, we gain colors that transmit both. It’s a time to open windows and feel the breeze enter our homes. It’s a chance to appreciate the offering of the harvest and to hear the crinkle of leaves before they release themselves to the earth.

It’s full of surprises, as overnight the gift of bright orange mushrooms appear on the lawn of a house on the boulevard. I politely ask Ivy to stay back.

And, while my cone flowers have long since produced pink flowers, it’s still time to receive the gift of late summer roses from a dear friend.

I greet you, Fall, with all you have to offer and with all you remove. You are welcome here.

Meeting Virginia

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 20, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

It’s why I walk.

I met Virginia today. More accurately, I met her a couple of years ago before I got sick, but I don’t think she remembers me. She was standing by her front door and I had picked up her newspaper and handed it to her so she wouldn’t have to walk down the three steps to gather it herself. I had seen her neighbor do it for her, so now when I see her paper on the wet grass or on her front walkway or even at the curb near the street, I pick it up, fold it, and slip it into the entry door handle. That way, all she has to do is open the screen door of her front porch, reach to her left and retrieve her paper.

Virginia is 95 years old. She lives alone, but does not appear lonely. Today, I was a half block away from her home when I saw her navigating her front steps to get the newspaper. I hurried along with Franklin, crossing the street, but she had already reached the paper and with the use of her cane and side banister, was already walking back up the steps to her porch door. I was a house away when I said, “Good morning, Virginia! You beat me to it today!”

“So, you’re the one!” she said. “I didn’t know who it was that was bringing up my paper. I wanted to write a note and leave it on the door saying, ‘Thank you!’” She stood upright and her white hair was combed neatly. She was already dressed for the day, and on this cooler morning, wore a white sweater that fit her beautifully. She invited me to come in and I could think of nothing better.

Franklin waited on the enclosed porch while Virginia took me into her living room. She turned on every lamp in the room. The walls were pink and she noted that while the house was built in the 1930s, the walls still had no cracks in them. She went through a litany of colors that the walls had been painted over the years, but seemed content with the current shade. The couch was hers; the chairs were all given to her by family members who had no more use for them. She said it with a smile.

She took me into each room: the kitchen with its large pantry and oversized dining table; the bedroom which was formerly two rooms, but when her daughter moved out, she had it made into one larger room with two clothes closets. I noticed that her bed was made and she pointed out that she’s made her bed every day since she was seven or eight years old. Her routine was to get up, make the bed, wash up, get dressed, and put on earrings. She used to work for the local board of education and was accustomed to dressing up.

She and her husband moved here when she was 31. She says it’s an easy house to live in. It’s where she raised her four children—one of whom died of dementia. She invited me to sit, but I needed to get back to my walk with Franklin. She told me to stop anytime if I needed a drink or to use the bathroom.

I gathered up Franklin and stepped outside of Virginia’s home. We continued on the downhill slope of Brandywine Boulevard, past Tom who called out to me to pick some figs—they ripen a little at a time and you have to get to them. I returned a call to my three-year-old granddaughter who called while I was at Virginia’s. She and my daughter call me on her way to school. The sound of her voice is music to my soul.

I looked from Franklin to the sky to the cars bustling by. To the buses on their practice routes before school begins next week. I look at the lawns and bushes and peeled bark of sycamore trees. And, I wonder about the people I pass—the ones I can see and the ones behind closed doors. The ones like Virginia.

Overgrown Summer

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 17, 2025 category Gardens

Summer has overtaken its bounds. Walkways all but disappear beneath weighty branches of echinacea, while moonflower vines reach out to connect to whatever they can climb. The trellis I provided has long since become inadequate.

I no longer look at overgrowth as something to be managed. I prefer to see it as food, protection, and a gathering place for those who visit or call my garden home.

Isn’t that what we all long for?

Summer Mornings

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 8, 2025 category Gardens, Stories

I met a friend for coffee this morning: mine was a cappuccino with whole milk, hers a cappuccino with miso caramel. It was quiet at 7:15, just after opening. We chose a table in the corner. I faced the side of the cafe and she the tree-lined window. We’d been colleagues, but have now become friends. We laugh. We tear up. We share moments of our lives that we didn’t know about each other when I was a volunteer at her school, and she, my supervisor. We ask each other questions like what we would like to do next, or after this, or some day. My response was to write. She made me promise I would.

When I got home, I put on my white sneakers, leashed-up Franklin, and headed out the door. The weather was cooler than most days this summer and we moved at a quick pace. Coming up the long hill, I saw Tom walking out to his car and he stopped to chat. He pointed to the tree whose branches had grown over his sidewalk, causing walkers to step into the road to pass by.

“I’ll be cutting that branch down when the fruit ripens. I don’t want the town to come and tell me I’m blocking the sidewalk. Here, pick some. Take that one over there, too.”

“Are they peaches, Tom?”

“Nectarines. They’re in the peach family, though. Here’s the figs. You know, the house near you, they have a fig tree. On the right.”

“I know! I have a fig tree, too, in the back.”

“What? Who died?”

“Nobody died.”

“Did you say somebody died?”

“No, Tom.”

Tom wears a black ski cap, even in summer. He started gardening when he came to this country from Italy. He prefers to grow food instead of grass. One of his neighbors is not happy that he planted three nectarine trees near her property line.

“She’s worried they will grow over onto her property. So what? They grow over, you just cut them. What’s the big deal?”

He asked if I wanted to see the back garden, and led me down the driveway and around the house. He told me to wait while he went inside to get a gathering basket and a white bag. Every inch of space had a plant. I noticed gourds and tomatoes and grapes. Tom told me he was angry with the birds for eating the grapes; he’ll have to wait another year now to make wine.

He began to cut bok choy leaves and asked how I cook it. I said I sauté it. He said that’s the best way. He directed me to put the nectarines into the white bag along with the fig I picked for Joe. (I had already eaten one.) He laid the bok choy on top, directing me to clean it good as there was a lot of dirt in there, and topped it off with basil, insisting that I smell it first. He added that the next time he’d give me some mint.

It’s getting later in the summer and lots of things are overgrown. Some bushes and tall weeds block the new stop sign at the corner. Most people only slow down and keep going. I notice the crepe myrtles blooming around town. The petals fall to the ground and cover the grass in crimson. Along my street, I spotted some wild raspberries and remembered the blackberries that grew near the pond in my childhood neighborhood. I imagine the birds are happy for such a treat.

I am distracted thinking of my son flying to another country to start a new job—a one-year position. The emotions are mixed as I am excited for him, and also sad at the distance. I will miss him. My granddaughter turned three this week. Her utter joy over her birthday brings me to tears. Her excitement when unwrapping gifts, and asking, “Ohhh…what is it?” makes my heart want to explode.

Change of seasons, new growth, loss, wonder at what’s ahead. I marvel at how things change so quickly, and at the same time, remain the same. New jobs. Dreams. Some day. Wonder. What will I do next?

Sometimes it’s all so big, that I slow it down and simply sip my cappuccino. Or walk my big yellow dog.