"An Old Friend"

She’s an old friend,   
just a co-worker now—an acquaintance   
We smile when we pass in the hall   
We share complaints about classes, victories with kids   
Lately, she’s lost her smile   
Her usual elegance fades    
Her eyes, downcast as she walks, miss my smiled greetings   
Someone whispers a rumor   
asks what I know—me, the ostrich with her head in the sand   
I look around   
Suddenly I see her loss   
realize her shock and grief   
Stunned, I see them together—       
as she must see them, too       
He sniffs around the other woman like she’s a bitch in heat       
They drive up in the same car       
step out for lunch       
stand together in the hallway       
flirtatiously laughing       
body language that screams—Couple       
What words can I offer?       
advice, as they say, is cheap   
How do I let her know I care   
without letting her painfully realize—   
I know   
(just like everyone else)   
I can talk to her, try to listen, try to be around just a little more   
Her other friends and I can form a safety net   
but we can’t protect her from anger, loss, grief   
We see it in her eyes  
in the way she moves now   
I remember another time when she had no net   
her loss almost killed her    
So, I’ll stand guard

Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Just the right song to go with today's poem. 

“Outside In”

In anticipation of today’s empty the greenhouse project, I woke up before my alarm. Shifting a few small pieces of furniture in the living room and strategizing the best way to protect a bathroom shelf, I patted myself on the back for picking up heavy duty aluminum foil last night. It took a few minutes to wrap the wood with wax paper and foil to provide a surface secure from any water spillage. 

The next problem, bringing in the huge ferns, was solved by a strong back and wheelbarrow power. Eight mother-in-law tongues took up more of the front room while our bathroom added some hanging baskets and a shelf of Jade. It didn’t take me too long to bring in various pots into the living room. 

The greenhouse received spider plants and purple hearts, both hardy enough to handle more than a single day of freezing temperatures. I threw in the cushions from our lounge chairs and some outdoor pillows to help retain some warmth in the small structure. 

We will leave the frost cloths off of everything until this evening. At the moment, light rain saturates everything. I’m taking advantage of it, and the current temperature of 67° to let everything  soak and breathe before the freeze hits. 

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Cold Front— 2026”

Our first major cold front looms in the immediate future. Although we’ve had a few nights with temperatures ducking down into the 30s, they’ve been followed immediately by warm enough nights and days for me to leave our outside plants alone. Some days I’ve pulled back the frost covers to water or allow rain to nourish my large collection of Aloe Veras and newly planted gardens in both yards. Our little greenhouse tucked in the back holds more sensitive plants that can survive a dip now and then, but the little structure can’t handle the stack of cold weather days forecasted for the rest of this week. 

The last few winters, we’ve experienced back-to-back freezing rain, ice, or even snow. I’ve run the scenario through my head on what comes in and where it goes. Yesterday, I shifted furniture around to accommodate our large ferns first. We will pack other plants around them in the front room next to the best source of natural light in that room. The family room, already adorned with inside greenery will crowd in about four or five more plants. I emptied our bathroom, too, to prepare for the smaller pots. 

As we’ll have warmer temperatures with rain for the next two days, I’ll leave the gardens uncovered to take advantage of tomorrow’s promised rain before securing their protective cloths over them before the first cold front of 2026 whips into Texas. 

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Music to listen to as you read today!

“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

Feeling "Isolated" as I deal with lost relationships. Thought I'd listen to this song today--

"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

Love having music in the background when I write!

"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

The lyrics from this song bring back my best childhood memories!

"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

The perfect song for my mood today: