Essays by Karen Anderson

On a regular basis, I’d find an LL Bean package on my front porch with a sweater in it for me from Sara. “It’s not Christmas or Easter or Mother’s Day. Why now?” And she would always reply, “Why not now?”

I saw a string of tiny blue stars lying in the street. I picked them up, but they were just cheap plastic, broken and filthy.

I would simply say, “Good night.” And two voices would say, “Good night.” It was enough to send me back to bed and to sleep.

As a young person, I wouldn’t think twice about such a screw-up, but as an old person, I fear I’ve lost it—whatever “it” is.

What I most want for Christmas is for someone to say: “Tell me about your mom.”

There was a time when all I needed to be happy was a box of eight Crayola crayons...

Last spring, I planted some marigolds. Their yellow and orange blossoms were gorgeous but too heavy for their slender stems. It made me think about the dazzle and burden of beauty.

I think of the word, “elderly.” It used to apply to my parents’ generation. Now I’m at the front of the line, wondering where the time went, wondering why I’m not better prepared.

Everywhere I look, something needs fixing.

His weathered face and ruddy cheeks announced that George Rector wasn’t an indoor guy.