Denise Marotta Lopes, Author at Denise Marotta Lopes

This is Pet Therapy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 29, 2021 category Furry Friends

It had been a number of years since I’d brought a therapy dog to the campus of a local school. My Golden Retriever, Roger, had died. COVID had erupted. But, on October 13, PAWS for People was welcomed back to campus, and my English Labrador Retriever, Ivy, accompanied me to the DeStress event on The Green.

The students came in groups to pet Ivy. Stressed from mid-terms, they were grateful for the reprieve. When we agreed to come, it was with that sentiment in mind. But, it turned out to be for another reason that we were needed.

A violent act against a female student had been reported and the arrest of another student had been performed. Students had gathered the night before to protest and were planning another peaceful walk on the night we were there.

I began to see them walking through The Green with handmade signs and talking to one another about where to meet the others. They stopped to say hello to Ivy and in the process, speak with me. I wished them well and they continued to another part of town to march.

Later on, I saw some of the students returning. They walked slowly, signs held down at their sides. They were quiet when they stopped near Ivy. I asked them how it went. They responded that it was hard. One girl cried, another put her arm around her. A man kneeled among his friends. Ivy was at the center of the gathering. I looked at her, at her sturdy body accepting the touches of strangers, of the comfort it brought by her mere presence. And, I thought, This is pet therapy.

Looking Up

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 1, 2021 category Furry Friends

Walking had been my peace and my prayer. It had been my time of contemplation and consideration. That is, until I began walking with my Labrador Retriever, Ivy. Though nearly two years old, Ivy still engages every sight, sound, and opportunity that comes her way. Whether sticks and stones or branches and berries, nothing is off limits to Ivy.

As a result, I began looking down to see what she was doing in an attempt to keep her from eating something dangerous. I watched for people, pets, and squirrels, in order to keep her from jumping, barking, and chasing.

I shared this with my friend, Father George, telling him that by looking down, I was missing all the beauty around me. I decided that on future walks with Ivy, I would purpose to look up. As a result, on our early morning walks I began to see many things.

a bird on top of the tallest tree; the “Twin Towers” of pine trees
pine cones in various stages of growth (from green to brown)
sun visible in the tree tops; a view of the river and the Delaware Memorial Bridge between certain houses
birds flying from tree top to tree top across the road.

Each day I saw the leaves changing color as they released their hold on summer green and returned to brown, yellow, orange, and red. Each day a bit more, starting with a few leaves first, and then moving to a patch.

By not looking at Ivy, I realized I was using my other senses

I heard the jingle of her tags
I felt the pull as she lunged to eat something from the ground
I sensed her looking at me when she needed to stop and sniff

The use of my senses was not limited to Ivy.

Instead of looking at roses, I would stop and smell them, touch them, even kiss them
I noticed that the scent is stronger in the older, weathered petals
I rubbed the petals in order to release their scent—as I do with lavender

By not looking at Ivy, I began to trust her more, and she trusted me.

I began to wonder what I might experience as I started walking—how many birds would be resting on the leaf-less branches at the tops of tall trees?

I noticed turkey vultures on high tension wires, one sun-soaking its expansive wings
I watched clouds blowing east to west ahead of a storm; leaves turning over, falling to the ground; branches moving to show the white trunk of a sycamore that had lost its bark
At hints of rain everything moves more quickly—people, dogs, squirrels, and cars.

One of the greatest values of looking up was meeting other people.

I saw the man whose rose bush I admired. I told him how beautiful it was and how happy it made me; he cut me a bouquet and left it under the bush which I gathered on my way back up the hill
I met a man named Tom who grew trees around his property: figs, apricots, apple, and olive; he showed me his garden and told me that grass was nice, but he preferred to have the land work for him; he sent me home with a bouquet of aging basil
I saw the man with the roses again; autumn had begun and the blooms were near the end of their season; he cut four stunning roses which I proudly and gratefully carried home

Walking has returned to me, my peace. Walking with Ivy has returned to me, my prayer.

Birthday Boy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 15, 2021 category Stories

July 14, 2021

Today is Rockland’s last day of being five. He’s announced he does not wish to turn six.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, because I don’t like the bathrooms in first grade. They’re bigger. And, they’re dirty,” he said.

When he was three, he didn’t want to become four because then he wouldn’t be the same age as Bryce Harper’s number. He’s reconciled that by telling me he still has Bryce’s jersey.

Today we went to the Delaware Art Museum. He insisted he wouldn’t like it and declared it would be boring. We parked the car and he told me he would remember where we parked when we left. We walked along the path of the outdoor sculpture garden on our way to the main entrance. He asked me the names of the sculptures as we passed. Circle of Lines; Three Rectangles Horizontal Jointed Gyratory III; Orifice II.

“What’s that one, Nonna?”

A bronze sculpture sat at the end of the group. I asked Rockland what he thought the name of this one was.

“I don’t know. Maybe Crying Guy?”

The name on the plaque was Crying Giant.

“How did you know that?”

“Well, because sometimes I put my hands on my head like that when I cry.”

We left the late-morning heat for the air-conditioned indoor museum. The woman at the desk greeted us kindly, took my money, and at my request, directed us to some of the highlights to be found in the building. The boy who said he would be bored ran ahead, looking at the paintings.

“Nonna, see that picture of the lady over there? That’s a self-portrait,” he said.

He continued along asking me the names of different pieces of work. He identified the painting of George Washington and a bust of Abraham Lincoln. He was unhappy when I told him we would take the stairs instead of the elevator. He said it wasn’t fair.

Upstairs we saw a life-sized steel horse sculpture named Riot. Within the body of that exhibit were the letters R, I, O, and T, which Rockland discovered before being told not to stand beneath the sculpture by a cranky security person.

I decided that outdoors would be safer, so after a visit to the restroom and another quick look at our favorite paintings, we went back out to the sculpture garden.

“Hey, Nonna, what’s that one over there?”

We walked over to get a closer look, past campers lined up having their snacks, and near a girl who was having hers alone. I made sure to stand near her as I told Rockland that this one was named Monumental Holistic VII.

“Monumental Holistic VII?”

“Yes. That’s quite a name, isn’t it.”

The little girl looked over her shoulder at the 168 x 96 x 108 inch structure in whose shadow she sat. The still-five-year-old moved on to a shady path calling me to follow along. We sat on a bench to rest before following signs to the The Labyrinth. Built on the site of a former reservoir was the biggest labyrinth I’d ever seen. We entered excitedly and a bit too loudly for the contemplative man walking its paths. He did not greet us.

“We need to speak quietly,” I told him. “Like you’re in church.”

He tried. He couldn’t. I didn’t care. He moved through the trails gracefully until he began to run and slid on the loose stones, hurting both his knee and the palm of one hand. He cried and told me he wanted to go home. Within three minutes he was back on the path. He reached the center before me, but told me he took a shortcut. I decided I would, too. When I spoke to him in the center, I heard my voice echo back to me, and thought how I’d love to come back here and do this again.

We left, explored some more of the grounds, and proceeded to the car, which he did, in fact, find with ease. Off to Sleeping Bird Coffee: me for a cappuccino and salad, he for a bagel with cream cheese and a hot cocoa. The library was next. I had a book on hold, and he chose two books on the solar system. I chose two others.

Back at my house he announced that he would be staying in his room all day tomorrow because he wanted to remain five. He conceded to coming out if everyone promised not to celebrate his birthday. I gave him his birthday penny and he ran for the special box on a shelf in the living room. In the box are the other pennies I have given him—one for each year of his life, and one for the day he was born.

2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2021.

“Let’s count them all, Nonna!”

He told me he was excited about his party. He told me who was coming. He said I could come early if I wanted to. He said there would be a water slide and his friends would be in both the front and back of his house. If there was someone I wanted to talk to, he would go get her for me.

My daughter came to pick him up but not before we played soccer, watched videos, did some summer school work, played with a puzzle, and sat on the couch with Graycie the cat and Ivy the dog. He read a book to Ivy, preparing her for therapy visits where she will listen to students read. He made us a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

He hugged me before he left. I told him I loved him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Nonna.”

Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.

A Chosen Friendship

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 22, 2021 category Stories

Friendships don’t blossom out of nowhere. It had been my experience that they developed out of proximity, shared interests, good fortune. It was rare to choose a lifelong friend, but, choose, I did, on a Sunday morning in 1998.

Our family had just moved to a small mountain town in northern New Jersey where I knew no one outside of my home other than the realtor who had sold us the house. My husband had been transferred to a nearby office, my children were starting school, and, soon I would be alone in this unfamiliar environment where it was not uncommon to see a black bear at one’s bird feeder.

We explored the new town: the antique stores, the library, the ice cream shop near the lake, the coffee shop on Main Street. I felt like a visitor, passing through on her way elsewhere. We attended a number of churches, but hadn’t found one that felt like home until we landed at the little white church across the street from the coffee shop.

My family of four sat toward the front nearest the windows. Still feeling disconnected, I looked to the front of the church for something to anchor me: the familiar cross, the keyboard, the pulpit. The worship team walked out, testing the microphones, checking in with one another about songs and whatever it is that people discuss in whispers. It was then that I saw her.

She had blonde hair, an attractive smile, and an effervescent personality that made it hard for her to stand still. She was part of the team, and yet, she seemed uniquely independent. When the music started, she began to sing, and her voice was like that of an angel—a gritty, accessible, free-flying angel. I was certain that if this were 1969, the woman would have been at Woodstock. I knew I had to meet her.

After service, I tried approaching her, but she was surrounded by people. I waved, nodded my head in an appreciative manner, and politely bowed out. I thought about her all day. That blonde woman.

In the early evening, my husband and I took our children to a small neighborhood lake. While they played in the sand, he and I sat on a bench near the water. Waves of sadness were beginning to wash over me—feelings of not belonging. Lost in my thoughts, I looked out onto the water. From across the lake, an object came into focus, a rowboat gliding in our direction. It was a comforting site, a slow, methodical movement across the sun-drenched water. As the boat got closer, I noticed there was one person inside, steadily rowing, rowing, rowing. It was the woman with the blonde hair.

She pulled up to the dock, wrapped the rope around a cleat hitch, and walked over to a nearby bench. With a rapidly-beating heart, I said hello, and when she seemed approachable, I introduced myself, telling her how much I had enjoyed her singing that morning. Her name, I learned, was Cathy.
We spoke for over an hour—eventually sharing one bench. I generally take my time with new friendships, assessing their reliability before sharing too much of myself. But, she and I trusted one another immediately. There was a heart connection that allowed us to both speak and listen. In the early days of our friendship, our conversations revolved around raising school-aged children. Through the years, those conversations evolved to deeper matters of mothering adults, and nurturing grandchildren. We have allowed ourselves confessions without judgment, admissions without explanation Always there was room for our own interests and the sharing of dreams, paint colors, gardening tips. There were tears, and always raucous laughter.

After eight years, our family moved to Maryland and eventually to Delaware; Cathy remained in New Jersey. Distance was never a deterrent to our friendship, no matter the miles. Sometimes we’d meet halfway and spend the day shopping and having lunch in New Hope, Pennsylvania. In summer we’d meet at the Jersey Shore. We’d visit in each other’s homes. She’d share irises, wild geranium, astible, purple coneflower, black-eyed Susan, and primrose from her garden, and I’d plant them in the soil of my new home.

Though much has changed over the 23 years of friendship, what remains is our love for one another.. What continues to grow from the roots we established on that park bench on a lake in a mountain town in northwestern New Jersey, are the strong branches of a well-established friendship, and the blossoms of shared hopes and experiences. I am reminded of the choice I made while sitting in that little white church on a Sunday morning, and I am forever grateful.

At a Distance—Bringing up Puppy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 3, 2021 category Furry Friends

Raising a puppy is not for the faint of heart. Raising one during a pandemic is even more daunting.

Ivy is a velvety black English Labrador Retriever. She is stocky in build, strong-willed in personality, and loving in manner. She bounded into our lives in early February, 2020. We were told to limit her interaction with other people, places, and pets until she had been fully vaccinated. We did that in full anticipation of the day when we could regularly walk her in parks and introduce her to humans and their dogs. That day did not arrive as quickly as we thought.

What came instead was full lockdown with three adults working, teaching, and schooling from the confines of a very small home. Along with Ivy, and our seven-year-old cat, we became an isolated pack. When awake, Ivy had one speed: fast. Her energy was boundless. Coming on the heels of our 13-year-old Golden Retriever, Roger, who died nine months earlier, Ivy was another breed of animal. She seemed to have no down-shift—until she slept. I lived for those moments in the early months, when for a brief time, motion stopped and the deep sound of her breathing was pure music to my ears.

When Roger died, I lost a dear friend. Not only was he my beloved pet, but he was also my teammate in pet therapy. I lost my connection to both the group, and to those we had visited. I found it hard to take a walk in the neighborhood without my faithful friend. Nine months after his passing, Ivy became our family pet, but, I still didn’t connect with her as a friend. I began to seriously doubt whether she and I would be able to visit as a pet therapy team the way Roger and I had. A therapy dog brings connection, love, peace, and physical touch. All the things required were now things to be avoided. I was raising a dog at a distance. The therapy group was on hiatus, the visiting sites shut down to us. Masks began to be commonplace. The invisible barrier that kept us 50 inches from other humans, was beginning to take its toll. The time when I should have been introducing Ivy to situations, sounds, and caresses was delayed.

Vet visits were challenging as I was required to remain in my car while a tech brought Ivy to see the doctor. But, she was brave and finally vaccinated to the point where she was able to venture away from the house. I began taking Ivy to a local park to help her get accustomed to new places, sights, smells. Walking for her was difficult. She preferred the hard pull; the darting from side to side (more than once taking me off my feet); the barking at other dogs and their owners as they passed us on the trails. She had a six-foot leash which marked the distance between us and other people. It was the distance which we’d been told would keep us safe. But distance is not what either of us wanted.

I was thankful to live in a neighborhood where she could hear the voices of other people. The fence between our house and the neighbor’s was a source of connection, as well as protection. I found as many ways as possible to socialize Ivy in the current environment: car rides, walks up and down our shared driveway, visits to more state parks. She continued to be full of an endless supply of energy. Solid in stature and strong as a bull, she greeted people with a bark that often had me explaining that she was just a puppy saying hello. Dog owners understood; others looked at us as ones to avoid.

When Ivy turned nine months old, I noticed a change. She was calmer. She slept more. I wondered if we had turned a corner. However, her calm demeanor came with a noticeable cough. I wondered at first whether it was a result of her pulling on the leash. I used a harness to take the pressure off of her neck, but the coughing continued. The vet’s initial diagnosis was kennel cough, but, after a round of antibiotics, the coughing continued. Vet visits became routine as she had blood drawn and numerous x-rays performed. She endured these events alone, having to be sedated as I remained banished to the car and unable to calm her. Her lungs were like those of a much older, sicker dog. With continued follow-up and medications, diagnostics and consultations, it was determined that she was probably suffering from lungworm. It is likely that she ate a slug, or licked its trail, which carried the worms that then found their way into her lungs and blood vessels. She was a very sick dog. After months of further isolation, treatment, and distance, she was finally released, but not without some residual lung damage. When she was healthy enough, we had her spayed. She couldn’t take long walks until her abdominal incision was completely healed and, once again, we found ourselves at home.

At the time of this writing, the little girl is 16 months old. She is strong and healthy; she is gentle and loving. Ivy and I have passed our Advanced Standard of Excellence for pet therapy and with more locations opening their doors, we’ve begun to visit at a retirement home and elementary school. She looks to me as her friend, and the feeling is mutual. While distanced from others, she and I drew close. While socially-distanced puppy-raising was not what I signed up for, Ivy and I made it through, day-by-day, and step-by-step.

Grandma’s Elusive Apple Cake

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 18, 2021 category Stories

Growing up as I did in the 1970’s, home cooking was the norm; eating out was the anomaly. Unless you counted Friday nights at McDonald’s, or breakfast at the pancake house after First Holy Communion, meals were served at our rectangular Formica kitchen table. Accompanied by wooden chairs that we dragged across linoleum floors, it was my family’s gathering place.

In our home, Mom was the recipe-follower. She taught me to cook and bake by adhering to precise measurements. If the recipe called for a teaspoon of cinnamon, she used a teaspoon of cinnamon. The only variant she allowed herself was to add a dash of nutmeg to her crumb cakes and pumpkin pies. She is nearly 85 years old, and still does not deviate from this method. There is no need to try something new and ruin an entire batch of cookies with all that butter in there, when you could just follow directions.

Her recipes are written down, some on scraps of paper stuffed into backs of old cookbooks, others on index cards, still more in a green, flowered three-ring binder. A smaller notebook is only for Christmas cookies. Some she’s transferred to her computer, making it easier to share with friends. Many of these same recipes are on index cards in my wooden recipe box, written in my young hand, or in my mother’s original script: bracciole; corned beef and cabbage; date nut bread; deviled eggs; goulash; Irish soda bread; Italian meatballs; lasagna; pasta e fagioli; sausage & peppers. When I married, my husband and I sat down to meals suitable for six; all of my recipes were for my family of origin—Mom, Dad, my two brothers, one sister, and me.

Dad had his own method of cooking. He opened the refrigerator and created something out of whatever he saw in glass containers or Tupperware bowls. Leftovers were never just leftovers. Instead of simply using up the old, he created the new. A random carrot, a stalk of celery, a hunk of ginger, a piece of meat along with an onion, spices, and soy sauce became essential ingredients for fried rice. Consequently, asking him for a recipe was an exercise in futility. If I wanted to know, I had to watch. If I asked him how long to cook something, he’d respond, “Until it’s done.”

Mom’s mom didn’t write down recipes either. Instead, Mom observed and asked questions. Then she wrote. The one recipe she never did obtain, however, was for my grandmother’s apple cake with warm lemon sauce. Grandma made it in a yellow enamel 8 x 8-inch square pan. It was a small cake, narrow in depth, not necessarily dense, a little light. Grandma would peel an apple picked on a trip to upstate New York. Her favorite was Macintosh, but she used any apple she had. She’d stand over the cake with the apple and slice it right there with a fruit knife, placing the slices on top of the cake and pushing them down into the batter just a little. When it was still warm from the oven, she sliced the cake and placed a piece on each of four plates: one for Mom, Uncle Bobby, Grandma, and Grandpa Sparky. Each person poured hot lemon sauce—as much as they wanted—on top. There were never leftovers. Everyone loved that apple cake. “Even my father,” Mom said.

Over the years, my mother tried to duplicate this recipe. Even when my grandmother was still alive, yet no longer cooking, Mom would bake an apple cake using a recipe she found. She would bring it to my grandmother, who took one look at it and made a face. Mom would say, “Just try it.” Grandma took one bite and said, “That’s not it.”

I have two of my grandmother’s cookbooks which mom and I have scoured for that apple cake recipe. We found some which Mom has tried, but to no avail. The last time I visited Mom, she said she found a new recipe for apple cake which she is going to try. This one called for salted butter and she never uses salted butter in her baking recipes. Maybe the salt is what gives it the right flavor. She’ll try. Yet again.

I wonder if what makes a recipe special is its connection to the person who made it. Taste is memory. It is experience. It is love. It is a reminder of those who have gone before us. It is what keeps my mom trying to find an apple cake recipe like the one her mother made. The one that brought her whole family together in the kitchen until every last crumb was eaten. Maybe Mom will never be able to duplicate Grandma’s apple cake because it is not made in their kitchen on Lake Avenue in Yonkers, in that yellow pan, with apples from Upstate. Yet she’ll continue to try. And, hope.

First Fruits

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 10, 2021 category Furry Friends, Uncategorized

It’s become tradition to hang the hummingbird feeder on my son’s birthday at the beginning of May, and then wait. It’s a labor of love, as there is often a delay between the preparation and the sighting. I clean the feeder with soap and water; then sanitize in a mixture of water and bleach. I prepare the nectar—4 parts water to 1 part sugar—dissolve and cool. I pour the nectar into the feeder, attach the top, hang it on a shepherd’s hook in an area I can see from my porch, and wait.

This time it took six days, but this morning I saw it. Stealth in nature, it appears, it hovers, wings flapping to the point of disappearance. It dips, it hovers, it lands, it drinks. It hovers, it zips away.

I find myself smiling, holding my breath, as I witness another first. This hummer is likely passing through as it migrates to its summer home. He is merely a migrator—resting, refreshing, reinvigorating. A welcome visitor.

There’s something about the first. There is a wonder in what has not been seen before. It sets the stage for what’s to come. It provides hope in the next thing.

Our beloved dog, Roger, died two years ago today. Last summer we planted a climbing rose bush in our front yard in his honor. This weekend, the first rose, red like wine, emerged, tall and straight, and with it, a reminder of hope and love that never dies.

Air Plant Infatuation

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 30, 2021 category Uncategorized

I have a love affair with air plants. They require no soil, no special food. They ask very little, other than for the correct sun exposure and a weekly watering. What they give in return is raw beauty.

Each weekend, I gather them together at my kitchen sink and gently shower them. Similar to what they would experience in a rain forest, they are accustomed to the dousing and are designed with little crevices to hold the water during dry spells. I allow them the luxury of a soaking for 20 minutes and a brief drying period prior to returning them to their happy place.

That place began on my kitchen window sill above the sink. The morning sun and indirect light was just right and they were thriving. I was surprised to see some of them develop a deep purple flower, and have since learned that this happens only once in their lifetimes. I have also seen them produce a growth which soon matches the original plant. I separate them and each flourishes on its own.

As I collected more air plants—some purchased, some gifted—I began to place them in small decorative vases, part of a monthly collection that once belonged to my uncle. Apparently, I was not the only one intrigued by the sight of these beauties. I began to find them missing from the sill and when searching for them, discovered the remnants in a corner or in the basement. Our cat was jumping on the counter, snatching said plants, and sharing them with my dog. Some I was able to nurture back to health; others were too far gone. It feels like a death to me.

So, I decided to place the vases and plants in a decorative wooden cabinet, hung on the wall above the counter near the window. But, alas, my determined cat will not be deterred.

As with all things, I recognize the ebb and flow, the life and death, the beauty and the beast. I do my best to protect and nurture; some things are out of my control.

Welcome Home

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 20, 2021 category Stories

I was nine years and three days old. There were only two months left in the school year when my family left the bustle of city life to move to the suburbs.

Yonkers had been my home. In the city, the whole world was right outside my door. My friends were around the corner; my school and church were across the busy McLean Avenue which separated Yonkers from the Bronx. The park where my siblings and I played was adjacent to the school. Everything was a walk away: Boehringer’s Bakery with its jelly doughnuts sprinkled with real sugar; Nick the grocer where I bought ricotta cheese for my mother, and stuck my finger in the bag on the walk home to taste it its creamy goodness; Mr. Blackman’s candy store which once had a fire and his Cocker Spaniel, Blackie, had died.

It was a noisy, hectic world, but it was my world.

When I was told we would be moving, I was uncertain. I knew we’d be living near my cousins, and that was fun. But, I’d be leaving all my friends, my school, my apartment at the top of the flight of 16 stairs, my church, and most especially, my grandma.

It was raining on moving day. I don’t recall the truck packed with our belongings or even the two-hour drive down the New Jersey Turnpike to Exit 5. I remember the anticipation as we exited and drove on the country roads of this unfamiliar place. I knew my Aunt Mary and Cousin Anne were waiting for us at the new house. I remember the drive down the street and looking out the window of the car, over the heads of my younger sister and brothers.

The car slowed halfway down the street, and my dad pulled over in front of a two-story colonial home. It was painted gray with light pink shutters. I thought it was so big. But, more than that, what immediately drew my attention, was the lawn. The grass. And, the flowers. The yellow flowers. I remember calling out the beauty of those spectacular flowers.

Those flowers, I learned, were dandelions. Common weeds. Invasive weeds. But, to my nine-year-old self, they were a wonder. I did not see them as something to eliminate, but rather, something to treasure. They were, in fact, my welcome home.

The Good Old Days

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 11, 2021 category Uncategorized

Thirty-four years ago today, I walked down the aisle holding on to the strong arm of my father. Waiting at the other end was the man I would spend the majority of my life with. Reflecting on that day, I returned to the hopes and dreams I placed on our marriage. Most were unrealistic; some were beyond expectation. There are things I would say to that woman if I had the advantage of years. I do; and, I will.

The worst of times are often the best of times.

Don’t give up on your dreams. Don’t morph. Remain independent. Don’t expect someone else to make everything right. You are capable.

Be supportive. Laugh. Dream. Stay in the moment a bit longer. Stop planning. Leave the dishes in the sink. Have a little wine.

Play. Stay up late. Go to bed early. Don’t compare.

Reflect; don’t dwell. Be alone. Make plans with friends. Money isn’t everything. Your grass is just as green.

Appreciate all of it. Trust yourself. Continue to walk side-by-side. Look for the good. Plant flowers.

Get a dog. Bake a cake. Watch a bad movie. Go to a ball game.

Laugh at the same jokes. Appreciate. Hope. Wonder.

These are the good old days.