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A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten . . .

Mary E. Pearson

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Mary E. Pearson
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: August 14
Teacher
Writer
SoCal
Mary E. Pearson
M.E. Pearson
Gentle
Grass
Rain
Single
Brighten
Makes
Greener
Many
Shades
Prospects
Shade

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Words have longer lives than people.
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Whatever you choose for your stationery is your favorite color because it's where you pour your heart out.
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There are all kinds of friends you make in life... But there's something different about someone who spreads their wings with you.
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I thought grandmothers had to like you. It’s a law or something.
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Pieces. Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?
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It's the unknown that I fear, the bites of memories that still have no connections.
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I still cry on waking. I'm not sure why. I feel nothing. Nothing I can name, anyway. It's like breathing - something that happens over which I have no control. (6)
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But I am more than a name. More than they tell me
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Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that makes the difference?
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Which weakness shall I tell her? “I walk funny,” I say, and she’s satisfied with that. (inside joke)
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He believes me. But that is nothing new. He always did because I was a rule follower. I played by the rules he understood. But there are new rules now, ones he doesn't know yet. He'll learn. Just as I'm learning.
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Boredom reigns on all levels. The rain is a welcome change. I have seen the pond swell and the creek surge. I press my palm against the glass, imagining the drops on my skin, imagining where they started out, where they will go, feeling them like a river, rushing, combining, becoming something greater than how they started out.
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Percentages! Those are for economists, polls, and politicians. Percentages can't define your identity.
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When your life has had few events to occupy it, it's amazing how a simple encounter can seem like an entire three-act play.
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...and time becomes a forgotten detail.
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What I think is all I have left. My mind is the only thing that makes me different from a fancy toaster. What we think does matter-it's all we truly have.
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It's other people who make us wise, and I haven't known nearly enough.
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On a small planet, where minute follows minute, day follows day, year follows year, where tradition marches on with a deafening, orderly beat -sometimes the order is disturbed by a dreamer, an artist, a scribbler - sometimes the beat is changed one person at a time.
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Multiple closets for different needs. Overkill.
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