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Can you stop it?

 

I can’t breathe. No, I can’t go on. I hope you understand.

My life, with you, is in a paper bag, in-and-out hyperventilation.

 

You can’t find the answers. Let it be—

 

Oh, you agree it’s a riddle, and yet you feign sanity as if the weight won’t crush you like a boysenberry. Splat! Blood and unwillingness everywhere.

 

Look! The shrubbery is green, the flowers are trying desperately to hold-on to Spring, but that blessed time has passed.

The ever-present avoidance. 

Yes, nature, a glorious magic spell. I am aware, but please.

 

Why, because two espressos, and the morning’s black and white print, reading between the lines, makes you self-assured. In the meantime, the sky went grey hiding from a pessimistic interpretation.

 

To the contrary!

The sun called my name, and I was singing its praises.

I was spinning in optimism, about to create seven perfect days ahead.

You, however, toil for whatever tidbits the world feeds you, gullible—a sponge for imaginary gossip.

 

That’s your problem in life, taking it for something it is not intended to be. Dreaming of Eden.

Hard work and planning, I tell you! 

I wish you’d wake-up in the truth far from expectation and madness.  

 

When in the end, the plan of hard work and no pleasure are a tombstone and daisies?
Honestly, I would not die from your silence. Being captive in its daily oppression is overrated.
Do you remember being inquisitive, less stringent?  

 

I recall more space in your voice for reason, less bitterness, long locks of auburn hair that embraced simplicity sweetly, a blade of grass, the vase-center table with tulips.

 

Before I became a victim! A scissor for a tongue, cut-out replicas of a heart,

tore to pieces, and the hardness in bones that struck the core, oh such pain

inflicted by arrogance.


Sorry.

(Black, shark eyes, no emotion. There is no sincerity in apologies). As if I could believe, and even if possible, would no longer want to. This time I will be a bird, courage, soaring into a time that is generous with love, reciprocity, a field that never ends in gratitude, sees me as fragile and simultaneously powerful, then takes me to its heart—a new home.

Unphased. Imagine his silence—

I will clear the gutters before the storm, board the windows, keep nature and life far from us.

I shudder at the earth that never moves inside of him, even on fire. For this, I can always
trust—insipidness, steadfast in the things that hold us secure in mediocrity.

I want to die, at least, in the fever of reckless abandon.

Each step was carved-out in the endless days of years that passed too quickly, and I, waiting, always waiting, for the one thing to save me, lost myself in the process.

I adhered to expectation, stretching only my fingers and toes to brush the excitement of a churning sea or dreaminess of a Marigold. I remained sincere to fear, and the guilt that prevented ever fully submerging and emerging.

I am confident that I could breathe underwater living as I imagine:

Free from solid ground, as a yellowtail fish, a seeking white gull, as salt in waves, and mist in the air, the moon when it rises—the whole majesty, or each star’s wish,

and the glorious sun like an urgent heat that falls onto shoulders embracing a new day.

I want to be who I am unapologetic, free from the memory, delighted in a moment.

 

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

 

I’m sorry. I’m a few minutes late.

What’s going on?

Ah, nothing. I mean, I’m tired. Today had a mind of its own.

Days often do.

Yeah, it would seem so… I just wanted to get the things done that I had planned.

It happens. What stopped you? Were you able to clear things up so that tomorrow, perhaps you can stay on track with your plans? 

You see, that’s the thing about days with minds of their own. There’s no telling. If I get everything out of the way, it’s still left to be determined. They are non-committal that way, those days, or I am to them. 

Right about the days, and you? What do you feel you’re not committed to, or that you’d instead be promised to doing? 

I don’t want to be responsible for the external pull that drags energy from me and diverts attention to everything else. The daily minutia is so goddamn important, isn’t it to our survival? The rotten details in every aspect of living and not being. I want to be. Myself! Not selfish, but existing wholly, which I can’t seem to do with the pull, this way, that way, the needs and wants from everything and anyone else. 

Did someone ask you to do these things for them today? 

No.

So, why did you feel obligated? 

It’s an internal struggle—a self-induced argument with my conscience—pressure to be perfect. I want to be, and simultaneously am resentful. I don’t want to care, not about my thoughts, or the dirty counters, the slippers left under the table, a dirty stovetop, or the dog wanting to go out for the third time. Most of all, I can’t bear to think of anyone else’s judgment in the case it isn’t all done. 

Would they judge you?

I don’t know. Maybe. I mean sometimes silently, or by their martyr act. I know that I resent anyone else’s implication that I’m not up to par.

I think that’s more your internal dialogue and the things you’ve been made to feel, the tags assigned to you that hold no real truth. 

I agree. Maybe I can have a tag sale. 

Gentle laughter–Maybe you can. 

Tell me what you’d like to be doing? If you could remove the distractions. 

I’d live! I’d have fun doing everything that I want with zero roadblocks. I’d be free and perfect at the same time. Yes! I could find a place for everything, then all I’d have to do is maintain. I could stop worrying all of the time. I’d sleep like a baby and wake up years younger. I’d have time each day to breathe, not the way I do now with doubt or hopelessness, but empowered! I could silence the things that do not serve me. I would see myself in the mirror and be sure it was me looking back. There would be so much space that I could come alive, not the way someone said I ought to be, but the way I was meant to be.

I see. Thank you. You do have a beautiful way of expressing yourself. Perhaps your creativity is repressed by your expectations of being something or someone you cannot be to please a phantom. 

Yes, the phantom ever-present within me because I care enough to listen. That’s my downfall—a need to please, to be validated.

Did I tell you, my muse has woken? She was angry with me for giving into fear and filling my world with clutter to mask the heartache. 

No, you hadn’t mentioned it. I’m happy to hear if, as a muse, she is serving you. 

Yes. I found her while taking my daily walks. She’s, of course, supplying me with incredible ideas far from anywhere I could write them down. But something happened last Tuesday.

What is that?

I was walking along my way when suddenly I was captured by a beam of sunlight perfectly situated on a green leaf on a low tree branch that I was passing beneath. It was so much more than what I describe. It was Omnipotent. I’m confident because time stopped, and I was given a gift of relief and clarity. It seemed possible that I could cross over into another dimension. I was overcome for seconds in pure joy, the kind unimagined or impossible in this life. I wanted to own the feeling forever but was left with only its memory.

Wow. That was certainly a powerful experience. What, if anything, did you take from it outside of the few moments of joy and their memory?

The knowledge that freedom exists to be truly happy. It’s a matter of believing, I could be or do anything, even on days with minds of their own.

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

 

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The problem is people have had it too good, too easy. The days of gratitude and grit became lazy and demanding. Sadly a portion of our country’s citizens has forgotten their blessings. A different part never appreciated our greatness. And worst of all, another group has betrayed us. Throughout the years, America has been a great beacon of hope. People from all lands made the journey to America with a dream of a better life. History has seen nations suffer, ravaged by war and famine. People of those nations have fled to America. We have opened our arms and cradled them with newfound hope. No doubt, there were struggles. People had to learn a new language, navigate foreign land. They prayed to be accepted and sometimes initially were not, but they persisted and simulated as proud Americans until they were. Everyone with this American dream worked hard to build their new lives towards prosperity. It wasn’t easy. Hardship was real. There was a depression, war, plague, but a strong foundation. America was worth the effort, and the place happily called their new home. Different ethnicities built us strong and made a great melting pot. We thrived on Christian-Judeo values, one nation under God. Today, we still have those that make the journey. They do things the right way, follow our laws, work hard, start businesses that build our economy, share their cultures through food, language, art, fashion, trade, building, music, so many essential things we embrace. They are proud to become Americans, and it shows in their ethics. They educate their children, teach respect and gratitude for all this country has to offer. Together, we form a strong community that is the United States of America.

Those who have forgotten, never known, or betrayed us, with hatred and division tear at the fabric of what we are as a people and country. A system of laws, our Constitution of rights, corrupted by insidious politicians that, by greed, turned on their citizens. By selling out our farmers, mom-and-pop stores, technology, manufacturing of all kinds, pharmaceutical, to name but a few things that America was perfectly capable of but got robbed. These politicians, socialites, and their demanding classes have replaced our values for hard work, family, worship, unity, and building dreams, with entitlement, abortion, breakdown of the family, belittling of God, and division, hence creating a culture of hostile demand, while they perch above. They manipulate laws to control a portion of the population and destroy those that will not comply. To line their pockets while collecting votes from those they have fooled. They’d rather people be needy to build big government’s wealth than be self-sufficient. “Let them eat cake!” Their selfish actions have opened the door, like ancient Babylon, to the enemy—With furious souls and jealousy in their hearts, have hated America from the start envious of its successes and wealth. They thrive on our discord from outside of our borders, seeking the opportunity to destroy. Traitors from within fuel the fire and turn dreams into nightmares. Together they have formed a trojan horse.

Until now, it was inconceivable to imagine a less than fortunate life in America because of what our forefathers sacrificed for us. Yes, we’ve had it too good, too easy. Great men and women courageously stood up and defended our liberties, and because of those people, we have our freedoms. Today, they are screaming to our spirits, pulling on our heartstrings, encouraging us to be brave, as they see our great democracy threatened—Save the country we built that you call home! Don’t let the traitors steal your souls! Don’t let the enemies win! Remind those that have forgotten! Educate ones that have never known! Punish and disown the ones that have betrayed! This era of wanton evil is your call to rise, as, without a doubt, this time in history will define us. It will determine the rise or fall of America—land of the free, home of the brave if we defend or give her away. The future of our children is at stake—the future of the world. We mustn’t let them down, those that have fought and died, carried the weight on their backs and built, preached for peace and good, those that have embraced our values. We must not let ourselves down.

—Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

2020 Remember Us in History

 

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We are living through a time of stillness.

Our lives are on hold.

 

Waiting. Fearful. Doubting. Hopeful.

For permission—

 

Yet, neither time nor life pause for us.

They remain precious and fleeting.

 

We brace in frustration to save both:

our time and lifeaging.

 

As if either promises to be waiting.

 

The world is rapidly transforming.

Political powers are gaining,

against us!

 

Who is in your head, and their bed?

 

Quietly and patient,

God remains a while more in observance.

 

He weeps for us, simultaneously amused

by our presumption of control, the situation.

 

There was never a guarantee, only our illusion.

 

A bus on the corner out of sight, cancer in the water, 

murder in the night, starvation for some,

a slip in a bathtub, 

or choking on hard candy.

 

So many ways to die! 

 

Despite it all,

we looked away from what might happen,
and took the chance to live regardless,

 

a free life worth living.

 

Maria DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

 

Restricted

I am—

 

Stopped in my tracks,

but not the clock, it continues:

2020 –

12, 6, 3, tick-tock…

 

to use the time, I call,

unavailable.

 

In a big world, become small.

 

Though I have learned to see

outside of me, grass and sky,

 

indeed, to dream,

but not to move, in action, so eloquently.

 

More like trekking through mud.

 

You, in your space, how do you do

with time not right,

the way one wants to control

day and night?

 

Space is given to choose.

On my toes about to spring!

 

Every breath, a birth,

thankful yet restrained.

 

Thoughts that don’t know how to go.

What if this, and that, if only each thing

would fall into place?

I’d lack the excuses for keeping me,

from shining right here.

 

Because –

the aches and pains of standing still,

with passion screaming, please,

 

do not fall back into immobility.

They are agonizing!

 

It’s like the bird I want to soar,

to sing over the world:

I am here to be—

 

Take the unremarkable life, and

drown it, bitter, in vinegar,

 

but not me.

 

A will and way, present yourself,

heal these limitations,

that I should be remarkable,

in whatever space and time available.

 

Inhale, exhale, easy.

Embracing full life—

 

Joy is the ability to make love and peace 

with what is here and now, and to offer it faith 

to grow exponentially for good.

 

Before it is gone, a new season,

opportunity, a distant memory of us.

 

Maria DellaPorte ©2020 All Rights Reserved

My Brother the Playwright

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Today, I am proudly sharing with all of you, my brother Vincent’s website. He is a playwright, having written an array of exquisite works on different subject matters throughout his years. Several of Vincent’s plays have been performed Off-Broadway, New York, with great success.

–to anybody who’s looking for a new, electric voice in the American Theatre:

https://vincentsessa.org

 

Naked Bud

I wonder what part of me it is, the creative, spiritual, or innocence, that beckons at the same time I look out of a window, not looking at all, but inside of my head, thinking thoughts that bring me to tears. Desperate to control the outcome, and rearrange what has past. Then in a split-second interruption occurs. I see what’s outside the window, outside of me. Wow, I say aloud, stopped in my tracks—splendid beauty! I must capture nature’s perfect story, its thoughts perhaps. Suddenly, I realize all of my parts are on loan and in unison with the Creator, asking I cast the fragile and human, limited ego aside. Dry your eyes. Trust everything is evolving as it should. See the tree rooted in nourishment. Upright, forming intricate branches—each having gone through rough, barren winter, the hopeful new birth of spring, joyous, playful summer, sprouting blooms of love in color, and in fall surrendering its leaves. I am witness to the miracle of existence. Every second, season, choreographed to perfection. I, a naked bud.

©Maria DellaPorte 2020 – All Rights Reserved

Photography by Maria DellaPorte

No one can save me, or you, from ourselves. It’s about vision. Literally seeing. When you can see something differently that’s always been there, suddenly you have the gift of sight, and everything gets simple. There is no set time for this to happen. There are no perfect steps to follow. There is no one teacher. Everyone has a different journey and lives at different energetic frequencies. We’re in the same pot, ingredients if you will, to a perfect recipe. Simpler doesn’t mean easy, either. It’s, in fact, the most challenging work of your life, through every aspect of our lives, but it’s only as complicated as we are blind or oblivious to the truth of our story development’s “why’s.” Once you turn that corner, the lightbulb goes off, the click-I-got-it moment happens, then you’re like, Oh!! Once that happens, initially, so does resistance to acceptance because you can’t believe what you’ve been under the impression was so hard was as simple as under your nose. Seeing…

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte – ©2019 All Rights Reserved

Below – My Logos

I am poetry in motion.

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Pizza for Love

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Julian stood on line along with more people than usual during his lunch hour in anticipation of his favorite pizza. The day was bustling. The holidays were approaching with celebrations underway everywhere.

Today, the chatter in the restaurant was loud, and it competed with Dean Martin’s, Let it Snow playing on the radio. Julian was hungry at 12:15 pm, which is unusual since he typically didn’t have lunch before 1:30.

Suddenly appeared, Sada – a wispy-haired, tall, and slender woman in her thirties. Her hair was the color of a tequila sunset. It was as unnatural as it was natural on her. Julian was enamored. The restaurant then seemed quiet to him as if watching a silent movie.

People moved about busily: Men in business suits with hearty laughter, others in jeans and uniforms, a group of female nurses from the nearby hospital, two secretaries in pencil-skirts collecting long glances for their curved figures, and the moms with distracted toddlers trying to have a decent conversation. They were all muted to Julian. He saw only the woman with tequila-sunset-hair and a perfect pair of painted-lips. Her spacious child-bearing hips swayed beautifully on top of her slender legs as she moved into the line like a wave above the rest.

“I ordered the Sal-Salad to go.” Her voice was assertive over the crowd yet delivered at a frequency that landed softly over the counter to Lorenzo. “Buon pomeriggio signorina. Lo sto avvolgendo per te adesso.” Then he folded over the top of a white paper bag and handed it to her. “Godere. Buona giornata.”

Sada turned to walk from the line and out of the door when, Julian, clumsily stopped her. She looked at him, not unpleasantly. He was tall and easy on the eyes with his waved dark hair and Roman nose. Still, she stared down at her arm and then back up at him in a way that questioned his intrusiveness. “I’m sorry, Julian said. It’s just that… I mean, has anyone ever told you…” STOP, Sada exclaimed! “What, he questioned? Truly, I’m sorry. I only wanted to…” “Seriously, stop, Sada responded. Don’t you know you should never start a conversation with, “Has anyone ever told you…”” Julian mildly laughed, then tried to retract it back into his throat, and suddenly with confidence, asked, “And why not?” “Because it’s typically bullshit. Don’t you want to be original, she wondered? I mean, if anyone else has ever told me this before? Don’t you want to be authentic?” Then she smiled at him wisely. Dumbfounded, Julian stayed quiet. Sada then turned towards the door then back again at Julian and said, “We should get off to a more profound start. Don’t you think? Julian was a combination of stunned, confused, and amused. Sada continued towards the door. Julian then managed to yell across a row of people, “Wait, what’s your name?” Sada smiled and said, “See you…”

The three slices Julian was starved for, handed to him at that moment on a plastic tray, no longer seemed important. He understood on a soul level that he’d just met the woman who would be the love of his life, and he was simultaneously woozy, elated, and terrified.

To be continued…

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2019 All Rights Reserved

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Eileen Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

This is a short story about life sometimes being painfully long, and other times abruptly short. It’s about fleeting-time, death, living day-to-day, year-to-year -the struggles, triumphs, and the people that we love, creating memories and losing them, falling-apart, and finding yourself. It tells of new friends, old places, and the need for trusting strangers. Throughout, there is music, dance, laughter, and madness, sometimes waiting too long-running out of time, broken hearts, and romance. Included are the moon, the sun, the sea, that has often saved us in our coming and going in fear and fury, desperately holding on and simultaneously letting go.

When once we were young and beautiful now growing-old and free – the tears, regret, joy, and walking with God in love. Sometimes you must trust in something, even a dream, each day while losing hope until there’s a miracle.

Finally, it’s about choices – good, bad, and suddenly having none.

Together we are here as if a point on a map has found us equally lost.

Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

I am in between love, without life’s old shine, missing a best friend, walking, not necessarily feeling the steps beneath my feet that take me through the day. When sleeping has become the only sanctity, and you end up in an uncomfortable bed — the irony.

Eileen is a woman I’ve come to know. Alzheimer’s is her afflicting disease. We share a strong sense of humor, punching our way through life’s struggles, laughing at ourselves, jointly crying over a broken heart.

In many ways, in different circumstances, two people can find a new foundation to keep them both from sinking.

I cry almost daily for a warm hug that never comes, for a listening ear that understands and won’t judge. I’d like to be able to trust someone. Eileen cries to know how things changed and if she could possibly get back to where she belongs, feeling happy. We agree with finding happiness.

From my first poetry book, The Sum of Something Meaningful

This story is a reflection of you, out there, and of me and Eileen, and what it takes to survive nature’s cruelty. What if anything, is the point? Do love and pain exist as experiences in and of themselves that we merely host like the sky does the stars? Or is each step, day, year, a way closer to healing…

For the past year and a half, I’ve been caretaking for Eileen. I thought I was ready because my mother died from Alzheimer’s, and I had witnessed first-hand the violent storm. During those years, I was losing a caretaker—heart of the home, a warm hug from the person that could always make anything better. I was missing her recipes, stories, clear-eyes with no confusion, advice, unwavering love, her kiss goodnight that I’d collect while she said her prayers, knowing they always included me, and it made me feel much safer in the world, that and the smell of Pond’s cream on her soft cheek.

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My Mother Francesca

Eileen is my friend. I’ve come to know her well, despite the times she does not recognize herself. Unlike the experience with my mother, today, a mature woman, I am learning the soul and heart of another woman. I only wish I could have understood my mom this way, those days, but instead, I later found a gentle glimpse of her romantic heart in her love letters to my father. I have learned how much like her I am.

Letter to my Dad Overseas

Eileen also has love letters from a man she recalls when she was young. Jimmy Wells sung of her praises. From photographs, she has shared with me; beauty did not miss her. Even today, Eileen maintains the same spirit and fights to keep herself!

Young Eileen

Putting on her lipstick with an aching heart, she views the picture of her beloved late husband, Sonny, on the bedroom chest-of-draws. Confused and sad, she wonders why he doesn’t come around anymore? Initially, I explained he was in Heaven. It pained me to see her become angry or hurt, thinking he’d left. Now, she no longer understands the concept of dying the same way she doesn’t always recognize that she’s home.

Sonny and Eileen

“Where is my father,” she asks – A large red STOP sign taped to the front door and an alarm that sounds if she tries to leave to find her way home to the Bronx.

Eileen 2019 – Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

I do a lot of distracting these days – Let’s get dressed-up nicely before we go!

We look for people from the old days on the boardwalk and cope with anger when they don’t show. Often, we go to the nearby beach. There is peace at the ocean hard to find anywhere else. It has a quiet knowledge of everything. We feel simultaneously small and lucky to tread on the sand or boards beneath our feet. The sun offers brilliance on a blue-sky day or peeking through stern-grey clouds. We don’t have to grasp for words to speak but listen to the waves crash and seagulls soaring above. It’s enough, and there’s comfort in that.

Long Beach NY Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

In her last year of life, my mother continuously stated I want to go home! To watch my father make her comfortable, kiss her hand with love, and carry the burden of her being lost from him, broke my heart. I can only imagine the pain and fear of feeling you’re unable to find your home, beneath a roof or in someone’s heart, and oddly enough today, I recognize this feeling in my loneliness. I witness Eileen trying to find her way, and I know sincerely a soul is a home no walls can ever confine but invite a willingness to stay, yes.

My Father and Mother

Eileen and I listen to Frankie Avalon sing his hit songs, Why, Venus, and Beauty School Dropout. Eileen is back in time, young, beautiful, gushing over boys from school, and she laughs out loud while telling me how her mother would tease her, mimicking her young daughter’s behavior. In those moments, she is entirely comforted. Then we take a walk around the corner to find people from that time. They may be near if only we believe.

Recently after taking a couple of days off over two weeks, then returning to work with Eileen, she had declined. She saw me differently. That day I was her enemy. In her words, disgusting and horrible. According to her, I’d stolen her sister and children and now was after her memories. No, Eileen! It’s me, remember? No, she doesn’t. Suddenly, a sinking selfish-sadness came upon me. Everything I did is for nothing!

Then an epiphany – I realize on some level, not only with Eileen but my other relationships, love is meant to save you and in turn, myself. Could I be this powerful, and if I love you enough, if I give more than I can bear, will you stay and remember me? Can we build a forever home?

Long Beach NY - Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

We try to understand this life, turn to God, talk about faith. I admit I’ve turned away momentarily but because I cannot remain that angry, or deny all that is purely magnificent in this world, return. I convince Eileen to return.

Through profound points of personal sadnesses, we can find ourselves on a random Friday suddenly lifted by purple light cast across the sky, and a racing flock of Sandpipers.

We all transition through much over our lifetimes. All of us connect. All of us have our turn to live, to love, to explore, to be brave, to suffer, to celebrate, to be lost, to be found, to challenge the truth, to be angry, to fight for what we feel is right, to walk away, to create, and to die. But I don’t believe we really die. We merely transition our energy into another form. I think we find each other over and over, and that time is only an illusion. Love and pain will see us again.

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Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Lately, Eileen and I dance. We listen to the music that returns a time when everyone we know was alive. Isn’t it brilliant the senses remember so well they can transcend? Close your eyes; we’re there.

Eileen and I developed a second language of gibberish. How it makes us laugh to make no sense at all and at the same time, understand – that we don’t need to.

Over many meals and walks together, we’ve learned of each other’s families, friends, lovers, our dislikes and likes, the disappointments, and been plain silly. We’ve balanced the most serious from medical test results to the simplest, enjoying a chocolate-malted.

She has cried to me about her fears, and I won’t forget. Life, people, nature, time, leave imprints.

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Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Eileen and I are an example of finding what we need at the right time until the next time we need something different, more or less. We’re an example of our human experiences, the frailty and strength, the kindness we all need, and love most importantly.

A Bench Along Our Way

A Bench of Someone’s Memorial along our Way – The Written Message So True

I miss a companion and have become one to another. I recognize we all portray what we need most, and in that, I don’t think anyone of us can truly ever be lost. We only need someone to help us remember, to remind us to live from that most profound part of our soul that doesn’t need explanation; just being is enough.

(YEARS FROM NOW, on the beach, I’m confident, Eileen, will let me know she’s reunited with her, Sonny, and dancing into the Mystic, like my Mom and Dad (Fred and Frances) where someday I’ll join them with a love of my own.​

Long Beach NY 2019 Photograph Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte

Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte Copyright 2019 All Rights Reserved

PHOTOGRAPHY BY MARIA PISCIOTTA-DELLAPORTE at Long Beach, NY 2019