Karen Loftis Rankowitz

Prologue Humidity's stifling blanket is gone and each breath comes easier. Squirrels scurry to gather a harvest before the snows of winter shroud a frozen landscape in pristine whiteness. Awakened is the smoke, exhaled from chimneys not used since March and families get cozy in the midst of the shadows cast by dancing flames; the warmth wrapped around them. While most celebrate this transformation of the seasons, I do not. Overwhelmed with feelings of anxiety, fall's vivid colors seen on the trees, is a dreadful reminder that they will soon seek me out. As though I will be the one to unburden them and move them beyond the interim - between here and now and heaven or hell. Like life that has been sucked from the lushness of summer, autumn falls dead. The daylight slips away and darkness steals its splendor. Only shades in gray are left behind the closed shutters. I will no longer hear the peep frogs or crickets that lulled me to sleep only a few short weeks ago. Instead, I w...

Though the warm weather here in Connecticut will give way to cooler temperatures, motorcycles will still be on the roads, often into November. Since the streets are busy with bikes and BMW's, trucks and tractor-trailers learning to travel together sensibly is a positive step in ensuring the safety of all. Generally, motorists know to look for other cars on the roads, not motorcycles. To share the road safely drivers need to be watchful of motorcyclists. Research has shown that 75% of motorcycle fatalities have involved another vehicle, and two out of every three were the fault of the driver in the other vehicle. What can you do to avoid being part of these statistics? Give the motorcyclist a full lane to ride in and allow the same room when passing as you would a car. Pay attention when making a left turn, at intersections and when changing lanes. Most crashes occur when the cyclist is traveling straight and the other vehicle is making a left turn. It is difficult to judge the ...

Potty training is not about the progression from diapers to big boy underwear. It's a process that continues into adulthood, especially for boys, and sad to say some never become fully trained. Lift the seat and aim. Though this combination may necessitate some study of geometric angles, it isn't rocket science. The task requires no more effort than raising an arm, yet it seems my boys' arms do not move this way. Not unless this action involves hitting or eating. So I thought if eating moves arms then drinking must too. However, the signs I stuck to the seat, "Flip-Top-Lid" gave them no clue. They must have assumed it was a target, since aim only counts in sports and video games. I do dream of some day having my own bathroom, a sanctuary where offenders are ban. Fingers, notes, and cat food don't fit under the door and the dog does not drink from the faucet. The "I have had enough" moment came in an eruption, literally. My child, the one that never ...

I asked for a hysterectomy for my 40 th birthday. What I got instead was bronchitis, a double ear infection, and a mammogram. I had put it off for long enough. I finally made the overdue appointment with my gynecologist. I was told that a mammogram was in order because I am, of course, 40. I took the detailed information the receptionist, so kindly, gave to me even though it wasn't what I asked for. As I sat in the waiting room, I read the pamphlet but couldn't fathom why, after everything else I've gone through with them, would they subject me to more nastiness. "Is there no limit?" I asked while patting my chest in reassurance. I was sure the words printed were encrypted. A secret code my mind readily translated from "It will be fine, it's really not that bad" to "Good, LORD, you want what?" The Procedure: Do not apply deodorant/antiperspirant on the day of the procedure. But, it was here in the decoding process where I began to sweat. ...

Cut me from the cloth once spun By poets great and apt I've read Thoreau and even Donne For course I may adapt Dickenson, Walt Whitman too Love poems and the dreary Perusing I have read them through Selfish for a theory Meter count and rhyming flow But naught has been refined Insight fed will ever grow Sighting eyes once blind Perhaps to travel world by train And view a tranquil scene But skill it seems to have no reign On thoughts without routine In front of me the first, the best I am the lone caboose Oh, to hell with this and all the rest I'll stick with Dr. Suess

Tear stained parchment, my pen hard pressed Longing to engage With callous judgment, my pain is forced Scrawled upon a page What echoed? Only ramblings Unforgiving to my muse Obliteration or creation What passage shall I choose? While inspiration eluded insight Dark reaper took its hold Leaving only emptiness From where my thoughts it stole Knowledge caged in prison walls It taunted mind's contention Gallows looming, tethered and trite Weary from dissension. My passion placed in tightened noose I braced for broken spirit Cast into disparity I feared, lest not submit My vision lured into dark depths To execute its pledge, The void, it stared back into me When fate stalled at its edge Of Harvester, you wish to know How death befell its rage? Persistently, I chose my path Now scripted on this page Though content, I am, this moment's time Freed from lowly troll I often sense its haunting ghost Consorting with my soul So, should you read u...

I wouldn't have been so alarmed if my children were home, when it hit me on the head. However, I was alone and naked and in my shower. All I thought was it must have been a bug. Probably a big bug by the thwack I suffered. I felt so vulnerable, and exposed, standing there but ran my hand through my wet hair and pried it out. I squinted, cause I can't see without glasses, steadied my shaking hand, and focused in on the Q-Tip. "That's odd." I said, and looked up. There must have been 137 of them just hanging from the ceiling. They were dripping down like stalactite formations from Carlsbad Caverns that tourists pay a ton of money to see. Squinting harder, I discovered the ceiling wasn't the only surface afflicted; they were everywhere. For two boys who wouldn't find the hamper if it was woven out of hundred dollar bills , one of them found the super-sized box of 300 plus Q-tips, and together they transformed my shower into a cavern. I vaguely recalled the s...