“Lies of Omission"

Hour after hour, I pour though old letters, emails and texts searching for clues of your true essence. You shared triumphs and tribulations through a narrow lens, allowing me to see only part of who you are and what you believe. Snippets of your life, like photographs, revealed only what you thought would match my own life. In hindsight, I realize how much of yourself you kept cloaked under sharing only specific parts of your life with me. The paths of your youth diverged slowly. Our commonalities of being young wives with young children diverged many years ago. You simply didn’t let me know. 

My career in education spanned thirty years. I shared with you all of the hardships and rewards with detailed descriptions. Your lifeline of sanity, warmth and kindness tethered me to hope even as Mom slowly died from Huntington’s disease. You never missed a holiday or birthday. That generosity made me feel special. Sometimes I carried guilt because I couldn’t reciprocate with anything more than words. Long letters and emails that pulled you into every aspect of my world. All I had to give was myself.

Imagine my pain and loss to learn that you let me into only the parts of your life that you thought matched who and what I am. Not who and what you truly are. Did I fail as a friend? Did you believe I would turn my back on the person you’d grown into? 

Had you shared with me more of your true self, I wouldn’t grieve as I do right now.

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"First Communion"

Paula First Communion

            Religious rites and rituals take on different meanings for non-believers raised within a faith. When my mother, a Protestant, married my father, a Catholic, she signed papers that all of their children would be raised within the Catholic faith. As she knew very little about Catholicism, she signed the forms required without reservations.
          My parents lived at McGuire AFB when my sister took her first Communion. Her attire, almost nun-like with a long, simple dress and veil represented simplicity and purity. By the time of my first Communion, my parents had moved to Dover AFB in Delaware. I don’t know if different priests or churches have different policies, but my dress of frivolous frills with a stiff crinoline slip, white patent leather shoes, and short veil made with a headband of flowers didn’t look plain or pure. I can remember my mother worrying about the cost of an outfit that would only be worn once. I still see my sister’s deep brown eyes rimming when she saw the fancy dress and hear her murmured comment about how modest her dress had been just a few years before.
          Many years have passed since that religious passage. As an adult, I’ve moved to atheism. Although family members know my husband, son and I have stepped away from all religious beliefs, they sometimes forget exactly what that means. One sister-in-law took my son to mass with her kids after a Saturday night sleepover. He was probably about seven or eight, the age at which he should have already had his first Communion.
         My son came home from his first experience with mass all excited, chattering, “Mom, we got in a long line. Everyone did this with their hands.” He folded his hands as though in prayer. “Then this man up front, the one who did all of the talking before? He gave me this cracker! It tasted really good because we hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. I wanted another one, but he only gave people one. If I get to go to church again with my cousins, will I get more crackers?”
            When I called my sister-in-law to remind her that my son hadn’t been baptized nor had a first Communion, she belly laughed and exclaimed, “Well, he just skipped a step or two! I don’t think I’ll get into trouble, but I definitely won’t tell my priest!”
 

Liz First Communion 1963

          
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Have Scissors, Will Cut"

 

            What five-year-old can resist trimming her bangs? I couldn’t. I remember distinctly deciding to cut my hair with my mother’s large, heavy sewing shears. The weight of those scissors meant my hand wavered as I clipped, clipped, clipped. The result? A zigzag of fringe up my forehead and a sound scolding from my mother. I wore my bangs exceedingly short for a few months since to fix my fashion folly, my mother had to cut my bangs back to my hairline.


Notice the crooked bangs?

            Did I learn my lesson and avoid wielding scissors?

            Of course not!

            Over the years, I’ve become a master at cutting my own hair. I have paid for haircuts only three times in thirty-five years!

            Friends can’t believe I’ll snip away until I’ve settled on a new do, but I think it’s rather fun to see the results.

            I never style my hair on a whim. Usually, I debate the change over several days, weighing the pros of my current style, the cons of something different. I may even do something like change the color of my locks before I begin hacking away at them.

            Eventually, the pull of those shears wears me down. Sometimes, it’s simply a little trim to even out growth. Maybe, I just want to see beyond my bangs, so I shorten and feather them softly. Other days, I take the plunge and decide I need a totally new hairdo.

            And so I found myself in the bathroom the other evening, chopping off inches with confidence. If I don’t like my masterpiece? It’s no big deal.

            Hair grows back!!!

Cut in 2014

2025 Hair!

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Close Enough"

 

Writing sometimes surprises me. I’ll stumble upon a topic one day, mull it over for a few hours or a few days; and when I finally get the words out onto the page, delight fills me. I celebrate when the right phrase paints the picture that’s in my mind. I mentally pat myself on my back and do a victory lap whenever the spirit of a poem holds true from beginning to ending. Occasionally, I’ll revisit an older piece of prose, or a poem written long ago, and feel satisfaction that this creation grew from within me.

Then comes a block. The cursor keeps its metronome beat. It pulses in recrimination because I’ve summoned it to the page and left it hanging. The swirling, whirling words within me can’t find form or substance. An emotion vaporizes before I can make it solid. A thought teases me in a seductive lap dance then leaves me wanting. (That would work better  if I were a man!)

Frustration, hesitation and perspiration often accompany the writer into the creative process. So when the sunlight contrasting with shadow plays across my vision, I long to create just the right description. I hunger for perfection as I grope for each phrase. My goal, however, to produce writing almost daily means I accept the concept of “close enough.” I embrace that as I learn my craft and fine tune my abilities; discrepancies will abound between that unflawed poem and my final draft.

The art of writing teaches important lessons. I’ve learned to welcome imperfections in other aspects of my life. Each day, in essence, is a rough draft. As I fill the pages of my life, I don’t mind false starts, revisions or rewrites. I’m even happy when sometimes I don’t—quite—get—it—right. Close enough, but not perfect.  

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Over The Fence"

Dixie trying to get Paul to throw her Frisbee

            Years ago, the boys next door would vault over the cyclone fence that we have on one side of our property to play with our dog, Dixie. They’d dash around the yard, trailing a toddling Paul behind them, waving an old blanket to entice Dixie into the chase. An athletic dog, Dixie would zoom in sharp spins around the boys, gather momentum, and make wild leaps through the air. As she grabbed the blanket, she’d twist in the wind, torquing her body and sending the boys tumbling across the grass. Dixie loved her Frisbee. She learned how to throw it herself, sailing it prettily from one corner of the yard to the other. Occasionally, it would float over the fence and land in the yard next door. A good problem solver, Dixie never wasted time with futile barking at the Frisbee. Instead, she’d come straight to one of us; hit us with her paw until we did the “What Dixie? What do you want? Show us?” routine. She’d bound back out the door, taking us straight to the fence.

Dixie at 8 weeks

            The back part of our fence separates our yard from the elementary school in our neighborhood. Over the years, we’ve returned home to find basketballs, dodge balls, baseballs, and footballs all labeled with the proud school name. Sometimes, the teachers would send a couple of the kids to our house to pick up the balls. Most of the time, we’d get home from work and place the balls on the other side of the fence, tucked up by our gate so the students would find them waiting the next morning. In all the years we’ve lived here, we’ve only had trouble twice with students kicking down fence boards. Most of the time, the children respect this wooden boundary.

Hackberry Trees!

            On one side of our back yard, two Hackberry trees decided to take root on the neighboring property. For years a rental house, no one ever cut the trees down, and they’ve pushed against the wooden fence, causing it to have a permanent wave. One of these days, we’ll pull this fence down and zigzag a new fence around the trees. New neighbors purchased the house and filled their backyard with rose gardens and trellised nooks, and they want to help us build benches that wrap the trees. We’d take one; they’d take another.

Koi smooching with Sarah

            Now-a-days, we don’t have boys climbing over the side fence, and remodeling at the school shifted the playground to where balls no longer fly over the back fence. However, conversations do float across these borders. I chat with my neighbor about her new grandson (maybe someday he’ll scale the fence), her husband’s recovery from his stroke, or the latest adventures of Koi and her small dog, Sarah. My neighbor on the other side, a chef by profession, delights in sharing many of his favorite dishes. Occasionally, he’ll pass plates of food over the fence, which definitely beats the balls we used to get.   

  

Favorite place to chat over the fence!

In the fourteen years since I wrote this piece my neighbor's husband died. We became full-time caregivers for my mother as she lost her battle with Huntington's Disease. Our chats over the fence focus on our latest gardening dreams. Little Sarah and Koi no longer kiss through the fence. Sarah passed several years ago, and Koi's loss this spring weighs heavily on my heart. 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman