Category Archives: Dementiaville

My mother was an anonymous artist.  Beginning when I was in grade school, school, mom got a part-time seasonal job as a hand-colorist of black and white portrait photographs. Most of her work consisted of high school graduation photographs—which she … Continue reading →

June 25th. I unconsciously dialed mom’s phone number tonight, six months after we’ve disconnected her line. Drenched by end-of-day fatigue, I let my fingers hijack the touch-tone and punch 226-5946. Even though it’s been half a year, I haven’t memorized … Continue reading →

The symbolism of cracked marbles woke me in the middle of the night. Mom’s years nurturing us as Cub Scouts, Brownies, and Girl Scouts rushed in, as a recollection of our Saturday afternoon crafts sessions. My brother, my friends, and … Continue reading →