Linda Gray Sexton
Autumn came bright and early that year. My toddler and I wandered down the sidewalk over a carpet of leaves, one that created a riot of color crackling under our feet. I held his hand as he balanced himself, precariously, on a low stone wall. Periodically pain streaked, low and mean, through my belly. For…
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How many of us have friendships that span decades and still remain intact? From my childhood, I have only one such remaining–the eleven year old girl that I called my best friend during grammar school. While there was no such thing as a BFF at the time, the acronym captures our relationship most precisely. So,…
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I haven’t been a devotee of poetry for over forty-five years now. My mother’s death did me in as a reader and writer of this often-enigmatic genre, making it impossible for me to enjoy the short mysterious lines studded with similes and its exacting attention to language. Poetry became too painful; too much of a…
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Hope seemed out of the question. As we returned home from Long Island, where we had celebrated my grandson’s first birthday, we were mired in non-stop traffic when my cell phone rang. The call was from the dog sitter. While vying for a tennis ball thrown up high, Mac and Cody had collided mid-air, and…
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As we come into the month of July and many of us take off for vacation, there is nothing better to slip into your suitcase–or to download onto your Kindle–than an attention-grabbing book. I’ve recently read three that captivated and moved me, and I thought I would pass them along with a brief synopsis. Anyone…
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It’s not Valentine’s Day, but now, in the first week of July, I am moved to speak of love. All-encompassing love. Tender love. Love that exceeds any that has been experienced previously. We are busy bees here in Maryland: washing windows, pulling weeds, moving furniture to make room for two big white tents and a caterer–all…
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Naturally enough, every year when Father’s Day comes around, I am reminded of my Dad. He belonged to a generation of men who smoked in the hospital waiting room while their wives delivered babies by themselves, men who would never change a diaper or be a Girl Scout Cookie Mom. How different my father was.…
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I own three Kate Spade purses. One is simple unadorned black, one is brown with white trim, and the other is a beige crossbody with soft pink insets on the ends. The latter, like me, is a creative interpretation on a classic design with a bit of flare. All three bear her name on the…
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Recently, a literary agent of high repute advised me that, in her opinion, I should make further revisions to my novel. As some of you are aware, this particular book has been my sole obsession for nearly four years, during which time I lost my agent of long-standing. Now I am looking to find new…
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I am writing this just before Mother’s Day, a time that always makes me think of two things: one is my children, and the other is my own mother. My kids tend to remember this Hallmark holiday now that they have grown past adolescence, and I enjoy their phone calls of appreciation, one from New…
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