A Growing Tribute

A tale of beautiful hearts still blooming despite the dead hearts. Great story Rita!


I’ve always loved sunflowers since I was a youngster. The towering yellow flowers make me smile. Dad wouldn’t plant them in the front yard like I requested back then. However, in later years, he always planted a row of sunflowers at the edge of his vegetable garden right up until his last summer.


This year, Mom and I noticed a row of sunflowers coming up at the garden’s edge once more. Mom hadn’t asked any of us to plant them. She wanted to keep it simple, being almost 91. Just tomatoes, cukes and zucchini. Another sister snuck in some squash or gourds—I’m not sure which—but the vine is humongous!


It ends up my brother was responsible for planting the sunflowers. To keep the tradition going or growing, you could say! In memory of Dad. Dad’s sunflowers always were bigger than mine and this year “his” sunflowers bloomed earlier and are…

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The tale of grandfather carrot

I’m certain grandfather carrot grimaced as I pulled him out of the plastic bag; the one from the grocery store that identified he and his fellow carrots were “organic”.


I examined grandfather carrot closely, noting the white gnarly loopy hair that covered him, head to toe.

A raspy voice boomed out of grandfather carrot, “What are ya lookin at? You’d think you never saw hair on a carrot before.” As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen old-man-white-hair on a carrot before and I didn’t hesitate to retort that truth to grandfather carrot.

He rattled an asthmatic sounding cough, and I said, “You are not presenting yourself as edible. I may have to reconsider chopping you up for my chicken stew. Grandfather carrot laughed and said, “Go ahead brave lady. Give an old carrot a shave and I’ll show you what I’m made of!”


Grandfather carrot, after his shave and chopped to perfect bite-sized bits looked as marvellous as his fellow carrots from the bag. “Grandfather carrot, beneath your wizened old skin and copious aged white hair, you truly remained a wonderful addition for my stew.”

Of course Grandfather carrot did not respond to me, I’d chopped him up you see?


Such a moving story. Everyone should read this!!

The Writers Desk

I lay in the hospital bed at Columbia Presbyterian in New York. It is ten thirty pm., and the nurses continue to give me enemas to clean out my colon. I can barely walk at this point and tell the nurse this is the last one. I feel like my legs won’t last another trip to the bathroom. The enemas stop and I am left with my thoughts about tomorrow morning. Will it be the last morning for me, will I never see my children again or my family for that matter. I left instructions with my husband and my sisters, they were trying to encourage me but with tears in their eyes. My children were four, nine and eleven. They needed me. I was only thirty nine and Cancer was my enemy. I prayed again that night to my God, please let me make it through this nightmare and…

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Frazzled discards

“Would you look at that?” I asked my husband.

Barry looked at me, rather than looking at where my finger was pointing as he answered my question with a question, “Look at what?” I’ve grown rather fond of this game we play with each other. We keep each other on our respective toes!

Barry chuckled and then turned his head to look at what had attracted my attention. Seeing the rake he said, “That is sad. It looks as though someone was in the act of cleaning up and something took them away from their job.” I nodded and said, “That thought makes me feel sad.”

My spirit lightened and I said, “I envision a prankster planting a rake in a somewhat frazzled mix of human and nature discards.” Barry looked at me, seeming rather puzzled and asked, “To what end?”

I laughed and answered, “The prankster would hope another would be clumsy enough to step on the rake and bop themselves in their forehead.” Barry, obviously not satisfied with my response, said, “That would be mean.” I replied, as matter of factly as I possibly could, “Yes, but I’d rather attach an image of a rake bopping a forehead than a person taken from their tasks.”

Barry pulled me close and hugged me saying, “Your friend just lost someone so dear to her. I understand.” Isn’t that the best part of long-term partnering? We don’t always have to explain our train of thought to be understood.

© Zora Zebic 2016