Forever Bonnie
My mother entered the world the way she would move through it—decisively, dramatically, and entirely on her own schedule.

My mother entered the world the way she would move through it—decisively, dramatically, and entirely on her own schedule.

Trenton does not technically contain silent t’s, like Christmas, asthma, or castle. Its two syllables, seven letters—simple, straightforward. And yet locals instinctively drop that second T, as if it were optional. Because it is.

Emerald City was less a car and more a municipal project. A twenty-six-foot-long Lincoln Town Car with opera windows, a matching vinyl roof, a quadraphonic stereo, and enough interior space to host a small conference—it suggested zoning permits rather than license plates.

If Trenton was my beginning, then 228 was my first address in the world. A simple sequence of numbers, unremarkable to anyone passing by, but to me they were everything. That was where my life took shape—where love lived in ordinary rooms, where routines became rituals, where I learned what it meant to belong somewhere without question. New Blog Post Description