"Heartbreak and Horror"

            Right now, my throat tightens to fight back tears as today’s events play out. Only it isn’t some kind of game. It isn’t a distant country. It isn’t someone else’s home or problem.

            This reality is our problem caused by angry, gutless people who cultishly defended a sociopath. He twisted and manipulated with ease all of the weakest points within our society. He and his enablers stoked the discontent of racists and misogynists and fanned their smoldering embers of distrust into flames of “righteous” outrage. He had no substance. He relied on smoke and mirrors—magic tricks that never hold up in the light of day.

            In horror, I watch the evacuation of members of the House and Senate. I listen, dumbstruck, as reports come through that key people responsible for the function of our government have been swept away to safety. A woman, trying to break into one of the chambers holding congressmen, was shot. I celebrate her death. Consequences are a bitch.

            There’s no control over the Capitol right now because we have no leadership. We have a want-to-be dictator. The full measures of our legal system need to come after Trump, all of his enablers, the followers. White House officials huddle in their offices and wait for Trump to give a longer, stronger statement than a few inept tweets. 

            Biden, the President Elect, supplies a need our resident narcissist cannot fulfill. Biden renounces the insurrection and rejects the selfish interests of the anarchy and chaos spawned by Trump’s insistence that our election was fraud-filled. His call for Trump to step up will set a tone for Trump to stop the siege. “The words of a President matter.”

            However, we all know that Trump is incapable of doing what is best for anyone but himself. Instead of showing leadership, he posts a short Twitter video that continues his lies about a “landslide election” that was “stolen” and although the election was taken away from him, his followers, and the country, they should “go home in peace.” He doesn’t denounce the mob rule that spews throughout D.C. screaming, “This is Civil War!” An unstable despot-wannabe grabs hold of conspiracy theories, making them true and real while undermining evidence and data by shouting louder than anyone else, “Fake!”

           

            The optimist in me stays glued to our reconvened Congress’s speeches, and the heartbreak weighs heavily on me. Some determined words bring me hope. I listen for those who will change the horror of today into honor for tomorrow.

Frozen in place?

Copyright 2021 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"Squishmallows Madness"

 

            Whimsy dances into my life from unexpected things. Several years ago, we purchased three bat pillows for my husband’s ever evolving collection. Extra soft and cushy, they sat along the back of our family room sofa for easy access. Within a few years, Squishmallows reigned in every store we entered. My son, the ultimate toy collector, picked up different ones that struck his fancy or tickled a childhood memory. This year, a large Squishmallows fox “fell” into my shopping cart when I wasn’t looking. By Christmas, I relocated him to my bed, where his comforting softness provides an armrest when I read in bed. Obviously, my fox doesn’t fit within decorating rules and guidelines, yet he will remain front and center upon my bed!

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"My Declaration of Independence"

 

            Over the last half year, a friend caused me pain and sorrow. The details don’t matter. In the past, the old me would’ve accepted her cut-and-paste explanations that appeared in a few texts and with birthday and Christmas cards. My weaknesses to walk in another person’s shoes to understand their reasons would’ve made me not only accept her excuses, but empathize with her. My desire not to cause waves or do anything more that would risk our friendship would’ve led me to mentally offering her a period of grace to remedy the hurt.

            My self-talk, in the past, would’ve gone like this: She really is extremely busy. She isn’t intentionally leaving me out. She wants to see me, but other people take priority.

            “Past Me” would’ve provided even more excuses for her beyond the artificial ones she repeatedly gave. I would’ve talked myself into believing her wishes superseded mine. I would’ve responded to her minimal contact with upbeat, understanding texts or calls.

            My best friend died this spring from Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she initiated contact with me, and we’d circle round, round, round and round with her memories or her latest obsessive topic. Her steadfast love for me never wavered. When she called me twenty times a day, I’d stop whatever I was doing to rerun the same conversation. It didn’t matter. I could remember the girls and women we once were, even if she couldn’t. With our last conversation, we talked of music and our dogs. She knew me in that moment, and held me special in her life.

            This other friend’s rejection, no matter how I tried to justify or rationalize it, made me realize that “Past Me” needed to be buried once and for all.

            I wrote a letter.

            Hand written.

            Posted just like hundreds of other letters sent to this friend.

            I released her from any obligation she may feel to continue our bond.

            I wrote my own Declaration of Independence. I repeated her many excuses sent to me that proved she no longer needed me. I reminded her of our history together and added that the tapestry that we sewed together had tied its final knot.

            This Declaration marked an important change for me. I’ve come to realize that friends should grace my life and not diminish me.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Packing Panic"

 

            My tradition to pack away Christmas decorations on the first day of January meant I bounded out of bed extra early last Wednesday. This year, I simplified things a tad by unloading bins into only two rooms. The living room contained Bears, Nutcrackers, various stuffed animals and pillows along with the tree. The dining room displayed half of my Santa collection.

            I cleared the table top first to open that area for all of the tree ornaments. This year, I selected my son’s collection from his childhood, the ornaments we’d picked up on vacations, and special pieces we’d gathered over the years. These decorations I placed in new bins that matched the ones I purchased last year. The tree skirt, stockings, and items I use every year had their own new stackable container, too.

            Even with my husband’s help, it still took endless hours to replace each item back into its designated place. I focused on the living room slowly and carefully packing way each item. A quick glance at my watch reminded me to take a water break after working for a couple of hours. Our slow and steady work resulted in five bins packed neatly before I glanced at my wrist again to check the time.

            My watch was gone!

            Panic froze me in place. Which bin? Where had I last checked the time? Which container had something that would’ve tugged at the band and pulled it off? I envisioned us having to unpack the entire morning's work. 

            Taking deep breaths, I glanced at the bin I’d just completed and ruled it out immediately. It had smaller decorations that came in their own, original boxes. I swept over to the Nutcrackers. The largest Nutcracker, wrapped in an old throw, could’ve snatched my watch. Disappointment flooded me when it wasn’t there. I pulled out a box that I’d used new tissue paper to wrap about six Nutcrackers. Tugging out each one, I found nothing trapped in their soft coverings. My heart sank at the thought of unpacking more bins. Before repacking the box in my hand, I glanced inside. My victory whoop sang.

            My watch was there!

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman