Loss

After the Applause, the Sound: Reflecting on the White House Correspondence Dinner 4/25/26

It begins as a mistake.
It always does.
A dropped glass,
a chair scraping too hard against polished certainty,
a sound that does not belong
until it does.
Then the room rearranges itself
into instinct.
People who have never hidden
suddenly remember the floor.
They fold themselves under linen,
beneath jokes that have not yet landed,
beneath chandeliers that continue
their indifferent glow.
Somewhere—
a body moving with intention.
Somewhere—
a weapon crossing the invisible line
between spectacle and consequence.
Security becomes motion.
Hands on shoulders.
Voices without sentences.
The choreography of removal—
urgent, practiced,
terrifying in its efficiency.
And afterward, the strangest thing:
the music does not fully stop.
The city does not fully stop.
There are still parties,
still glasses lifted,
still laughter that arrives late
and lands wrong.
Because this is what we have learned—
how to hold terror
in one hand
and a drink in the other.
But somewhere else,
in a school hallway that smells like pencils and disinfectant,
this is not new.
Children already know this script.
They know the way a sound splits the air
into before and after.
They know how silence becomes instruction.
How a classroom becomes a hiding place.
How time stretches—
elastic, unbearable—
while waiting to be found
or not found.
They do not call it surreal.
They do not return to cocktails.
They carry it home
in their bodies.
We call this resilience.
We call this freedom.
We call this an isolated incident
again, again, again—
until the language itself
sounds rehearsed.
And outside the room,
outside the headlines,
there is a country making noise elsewhere—
machines of war turning in distant waters,
arguments echoing louder than mourning,
the quiet, deliberate refusal
to change anything that matters.
The world is not confused.
It is watching.
Watching how quickly we tidy the scene,
how neatly we package fear
into policy proposals
or talking points
or nothing at all.
Watching how a near-miss
still counts as normal.
And here—
in the aftermath of almost—
we stand in the fragile space
between what happened
and what could have happened,
pretending that distance
is safety.
But it isn’t distance
that will save us.
It will not be the stage,
or the room,
or the illusion of control.
It will be the people
who refuse the script.
The ones who do not clap
when the lights come back on.
The ones who remember
what the children already know:
that the sound is never just a sound,
that survival is not the same as living,
that a country is not lost all at once
but in moments like this—
when it chooses
not to change.
And still,
there are voices.
Unamplified,
uninvited,
unafraid of breaking the performance.
They do not stop.
They do not forget.
They insist—
quietly, stubbornly—
that the story is not over
unless we decide it is.

WHEN SEEING BECOMES AN ACT OF DEFIANCE

Remembering 9/11: Twenty-four Years Later

Twenty-four years have passed since that September morning when the sky was impossibly blue, and then turned to smoke and ash. In the days and weeks that followed, we were broken, but we were together. Neighbors reached across fences, strangers held one another in crowded vigils, firefighters became our heroes, and compassion rose like a second flag over ground zero. Our grief was immense, but so was our unity.

Today, that spirit feels far away. We are no longer a people who instinctively lean toward one another in times of pain, but a nation divided against itself—sharpened by anger, weaponized by politics. Violence has become routine, and each new act of bloodshed is not met with collective resolve but with polarization. Gun violence, once unthinkable at this scale, has been politicized into endless arguments, and the blame is always placed elsewhere—never on us, never on our unwillingness to act.

America was once known, however imperfectly, for its compassion, its courage, and its sense of social justice. On 9/11, the world watched a nation gather its wounded heart and hold it tenderly, refusing to be defined only by tragedy. Now, we seem defined by division. The ashes of ground zero remind us not only of lives lost but of a unity that has itself turned to ash.

If this anniversary means anything, it must be to remember that in our darkest hour we found one another—and to ask if we are still capable of that kind of grace.

The Thin Edge of Freedom

It never happens all at once. Democracies rarely fall with a single catastrophic blow; they wither, slowly, under the weight of small, “reasonable” compromises — the kind that seem harmless until, suddenly, they are not.

The recent decision by the United States Supreme Court to lift the ban on removing people from the streets based on “profiling” has been defended as a matter of “public safety” and “order.” But behind the sterile legal language lies something older and far more dangerous — the sanctioned power to define who belongs and who does not. Once we give government bodies the authority to decide, based on appearance, behavior, or circumstance, which human beings are worthy of dignity and which are not, we step onto a road we should know by heart.

Poland, 1939, is often remembered for its devastating end. But before the gas chambers and ghettos, before mass deportations and camps, there were ordinances. Small ones. Laws that allowed authorities to “remove undesirables” from public spaces. A subtle shift in language: “public safety,” “social order,” “economic burden.” These justifications opened the door for exclusion — first social, then legal, and finally existential. It began with people being pushed from streets, squares, and markets, labeled as “problems” rather than neighbors, citizens, and human beings.

We tell ourselves that America is different, that our institutions are stronger, that our democracy is permanent. But history warns otherwise. The most dangerous erosion of freedom comes not with sirens but with silence — when we accept incremental cruelty in exchange for the illusion of control.

This Supreme Court decision is not about homelessness alone, nor about urban safety, nor about the aesthetic order of our cities. It is about power — who wields it, and over whom. When our highest court grants legal permission to strip rights from the most vulnerable, we are participating in a reshaping of our national character. Each decision like this redraws the moral boundaries of our democracy.

The parallels to pre-WWII Poland are not exact, nor should they be overstated. But they are haunting enough to demand our attention. Back then, profiling didn’t start with religion or ethnicity alone — it began with poverty, vagrancy, and “unwanted” populations. The system learned, step by step, who it could erase without resistance.

The warning signs are here. A government emboldened to control public space by removing certain bodies. A judiciary increasingly aligned with ideological power rather than constitutional principle. A populace numbed by exhaustion, partisanship, and fear.

This isn’t hyperbole. It’s history, repeating in whispers before it ever shouts.

Democracy does not collapse in grand gestures — it crumbles under the weight of ordinary decisions made in the shadows of extraordinary consequences. The question before us is whether we will recognize these quiet tremors for what they are or wait, as so many once did, until the ground beneath us gives way.

For those who believe in freedom, equality, and the dignity of every human being, silence is no longer neutral. It is complicity.

Minnesota: Where Prayers Could Not Save Them

Minnesota: Where Prayers Could Not Save Them

There were prayers still hanging in the air
when the sound broke through the hymn—
metal splitting silence,
bodies folding like fragile paper
in a place meant to hold them safe.

Another church.
Another town whose name
we will remember
only because of the blood on its floor.

Somewhere,
in the dim rooms of Washington,
they sit with folded hands,
offering thoughts,
sending prayers
like flowers tossed into a river
while the current drags us under.

The children are gone.
The mothers,
the fathers,
the soft elders who built these walls
now lie in the quiet the gunman left behind.

And still,
nothing.

Nothing
but the sound of lobbyists
counting their victories,
nothing but the rustle of checks
signed in back rooms,
nothing but the silence of a government
that looks away
because power has its price
and our dead
cannot afford the bid.

We were promised sanctuary.
Instead,
we have built an altar
to the weapon,
kneeling before it
while our children are buried beneath it.

How many more?
How many hymns must end mid-breath
before the halls of power
hear the echoes
screaming through the pews?

The candles still burn tonight.
The names will be read tomorrow.
And somewhere,
someone is already
loading the next round.

Woodstock – August 16

Woodstock

We came barefoot into the fields,
the sky dripping music and rain,
our bodies pressed close in the mud,
hearts warm as the campfires
we believed could burn away
the old world.

We thought love was a weapon
that could dismantle empires,
that every guitar chord
was a law rewritten,
that every sunrise
was the first day of the new earth.

We shouted peace until our throats bled,
until the flags frayed in our hands.
We thought we would inherit
the halls of Congress,
reshape the courts,
turn power into a public trust
for everyone,
not just for a fortunate few.

But the years are long and merciless.
We have lived to see
the gap between mansion and shelter
widen until it swallows the horizon.
Social justice is a banner
faded by wind and rain,
while politics is wielded
for grift,
for empire,
for the quiet corruption
of men in robes and women in power suits
who bow only to the wealthiest one percent.

I still hear the music sometimes,
faint, behind the static.
It smells of wet grass and patchouli,
of hope before the fever broke.
We were so young.
We were so certain.
And now,
the mud has dried to dust.

When Silence Screams: The Hubris and Apathy of a Broken Leadership

In the aftermath of the tragic shootings that claimed the lives of members of the Hortman and Hoffman families, what should have been a solemn moment of collective grief and unity was instead met with a telling void—no statement, no gesture, no condolences from the White House. Not even the minimal decency of recognizing innocent lives lost. In place of empathy, there was deflection. From the GOP, we witnessed what has become a familiar routine: politicized finger-pointing and bad-faith rhetoric that serve only to deepen divides and avoid responsibility.

This absence of compassion, this gross indifference, is not just morally staggering—it’s emblematic of the rot that has metastasized in our political leadership. Under Donald Trump’s influence, cruelty has not only become policy—it has become performance. Hubris has eclipsed humility, and political gain has all but extinguished our national conscience. The failure to even pretend to care speaks volumes about how desensitized and broken this administration is, and how far we’ve drifted from any recognizable moral compass.

We are watching, in real time, the normalization of violence—not merely as a societal ill, but as a partisan tool. When the lives of American citizens are reduced to narrative pawns in a culture war, when leaders refuse to grieve with their people because it doesn’t serve their agenda, we lose more than just lives. We lose a piece of our shared humanity. And when silence is all that comes from the top, it becomes deafeningly clear: the message is that some lives are unworthy of acknowledgment, depending on whose grief is politically convenient.

What kind of country have we become when our government cannot deliver even the most basic human response—sympathy? How is it possible that in the face of senseless violence, our leaders offer not unity, but opportunism? It is grossly, dangerously unacceptable.

This isn’t just a failure of leadership. It is a deliberate choice—a choice to divide, to deflect, and to harden the national heart. That choice diminishes us all.

I am deeply saddened—though no longer surprised—that this country has once again reached an all-time low. Under this administration, “lowest” has become a consistent signature, an evolving standard by which tragedy is not mourned but manipulated. We must not accept this as normal. We must not allow apathy to replace accountability, or arrogance to replace empathy. Because if we do, the silence will only grow louder, and the violence more routine.

We are better than this. We must demand better than this.

For Esther Bernstein – A Beautiful Soul

Today, we celebrate a woman that shined, to honor a woman whose presence was a quiet miracle in each of our lives. She was not simply kind—she lived kindness. It wasn’t a virtue she chose, but rather one that chose her, something she carried effortlessly, like breath or light.

She treated everyone she met with genuine respect—whether stranger or friend, whether their path was smooth or troubled. There was something in the way she looked at people, in the way she listened, that reminded you that you mattered. You always felt seen, and more than that, you felt safe.

Her generosity was never showy. It was a warm and constant hand on your shoulder in times of doubt, a call when you least expected it but needed it most, a presence that felt like home. She gave without condition, with a grace that asked nothing in return.

Music was her companion, her sanctuary, and her celebration. She loved musicians not just for the sounds they created, but for the courage it took to bare their souls through melody. She found beauty in every note and joy in the ones who played them. She didn’t just listen to music—she felt it, and through that love, she helped others feel it too.

But perhaps the most extraordinary thing about her was the way she radiated. Not with grand gestures or loud declarations, but from something deep inside—a quiet glow that reached us all. She was a healing force in this world. A balm. A light in dark corners. A friend who reminded us who we are when we’d forgotten.

Her absence leaves an ache, yes. But more than that, her life leaves a legacy. One of compassion, joy, and quiet strength. She taught us how to care better, listen deeper, and live more generously.

She was a friend to all, and her spirit will echo in the laughter she sparked, the music she adored, and the love she gave so freely.

We miss her deeply. But we carry her always.

The Quiet Slide: Losing Democracy to Fascism

It doesn’t happen all at once.

We imagine the end of democracy as a great rupture—boots stomping, books burning, a single broadcast replacing the cacophony of free voices. But in truth, the decline is quieter. It is a slow erosion of norms and a steady dulling of public outrage. It is a normalization of cruelty, a reshaping of language, a rerouting of empathy. And perhaps most dangerously, it is a weary public turning its face away—tired, overworked, and convinced that nothing can really change.

Democracy, for all its flaws, is a radical idea: that the many can govern themselves with fairness, with shared power, with the rights of even the smallest voices protected. Fascism, in contrast, offers a dark kind of simplicity—one leader, one story, one enemy. It promises certainty, belonging, and safety in exchange for submission, exclusion, and obedience. And when a people are frightened, when they feel unseen or forgotten or betrayed, that bargain begins to look appealing.

We are living in such a moment. The warning signs are not subtle anymore. We see them in the demonization of the press, in the dehumanization of immigrants, in the rewriting of history, in the celebration of violence, and in the quiet compromises made by those who should know better. We see it in the way truth becomes negotiable, institutions are undermined, and compassion is reframed as weakness.

But still—many people do not feel alarmed. That, too, is part of the danger.

Authoritarianism rarely begins with a coup. It begins with fatigue. With confusion. With people laughing off what they should fear. It begins when civic engagement feels like an act of futility, and when politics becomes another form of entertainment, not a shared responsibility. It begins when neighbors stop talking, when trust fades, and when cynicism becomes easier than hope.

History offers too many examples. Germany. Italy. Chile. Hungary. The patterns are hauntingly familiar. And yet, what we often forget is that resistance, too, is possible. Democracy, even in its fragility, can endure. But only if we choose to see each other—not as enemies, but as fellow citizens, fallible and frightened and full of potential.

What might save us is not another policy or politician, though those matter. It is a reawakening of empathy. A radical recommitment to community. A refusal to abandon the idea that truth exists and that it matters. We must remember what it means to belong to each other.

Fascism feeds on isolation. Democracy breathes through connection.

So we must listen harder. Speak with more care. Call out cruelty. Defend the vulnerable. Vote like our lives depend on it—because for many, they do. And we must do it not just for ourselves, but for the ones who come after us, for whom history is not yet written.

We are not helpless. Not yet. But we must not wait any longer to act as if we are responsible.

Fading Away

When I was first diagnosed with cancer and was told that my time to live may be limited, I expected to feel despair or perhaps a kind of numbness, but instead, a deep sense of urgency flooded over me.

I wasn’t afraid of dying, but of what I had left to do, what I wanted to leave behind, and disheartened by the thought of being forgotten.

To me, being forgotten is dying twice.

Recently, an acquaintance of mine and an integral member of our local theater community suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. Tony was renowned throughout Southern New England as a teacher, theatrical director, actor and reviewer to hundreds of artists, theaters and supporters of the arts.

For 47 years, he was a beloved fixture in our lives with a quick wit, an ever-present ear to listen and a distinctive, spontaneous laugh familiar to those who knew him.

Between the local TV news reports, countless social media posts and conversations with friends about Tony, it’s clear to me that our friend and colleague will sustain a long and much-loved legacy.

Tony’s passing alerted me of how being born inevitably launches our life clock. Time’s never on our side. That feeling caught me off guard, once again. The thought of slipping away from the memory of those I hold dear filled me with sorrow.

I’m not writing about a life void of achievement or accolades, travel and enrichment. I’ve been blessed to have experienced these. But I often contemplate if I’ve had a quiet impact on others.

Did I show kindness or love? How did I make people feel? The legacy we leave is in the small moments: the shared laughter, the comforting words, the strength we offer in times of need—all are more important to me than any award, plaque or trip to an exotic place.

I love my only child, Lauren, my six sisters, their kids and one very special niece, Trish. I hope they’ll remember the small, intimate moments that made up our lives—the ones often overlooked, but never forgotten by those who experience them.

I hope my daughter will remember the way I made chocolate chip pancakes in the morning for her and her friends. How I used to sing or play the piano when I thought no one was listening, just to fill the house with something beautiful. And how I always tried to be present, even when life was hectic.

In order to remember, I’m focused on creating my blog—not of goodbyes, but of memories. I pen stories of my youth, the moments that shaped me, and the quiet wisdom I’ve gathered from others. I write about love, about loss, and about the beauty of fleeting moments.

I’m not writing for an audience, but for the people who will remain—my family, friends, loved ones. I want to ensure the lessons learned and the love given to me and the love I gave to others isn’t forgotten.

What I leave behind is not simply a memory—it’s the essence of who I am woven into the fabric of those I love and those who love me.

There is a kind of immortality, quiet and humble yet infinitely powerful, in writing it down.

I believe the true measure of a life is in the ripples we create, in the change we inspire, and in the love we leave behind.

The good we do lives on, long after we’re gone, passed from one person to the next like a flame that never fades.

Even in death, there’s a profound beauty in knowing that our light, however small, will continue to shine in the hearts of others.

Poetry is not my forte. However, in the wake of Tony’s death, this one wrote itself. Flowing out of my pen without effort. Thank you, Tony, for the inspiration.

Fading Away

In the quiet hush of evening’s glow,
I feel the softest winds below—
A breath, a sigh, as shadows creep,
Whispering secrets that the heart must keep.
The world will turn, as it must do,
While I dissolve like morning dew,
A fading echo, a fleeting sound,
A thread of light no longer bound.
I’ll leave no mark, nor trace, nor scar,
But in the sky, I’ll be a star—
A shimmer soft, too far to hold,
Yet burning bright as I grow cold.
No tears will fall, no voice will rise,
Just quiet skies and silken sighs.
And when the earth forgets my name,
I’ll be the wind, untamed, untame.
In every leaf, in every breeze,
In every moment that you seize,
I’ll linger still, though far away,
In echoes of a distant day.
For life, like love, is meant to flow—
And fading is the way we grow.
So, I’ll vanish, soft, serene,
A fleeting shadow, yet unseen.

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