Marilyn Davenport
Bio
Born in Chicago, raised on the North side, schooled at the university, embarked on the big adventure. New York, California, Colorado. The mountains move me, but the oceans speak to me. As does writing. Grateful for a space to share.
Stories (5/0)
That Lump was Real
About the time we were packing up boxes to move you from your home of fifty-five years to another part of the country, I felt a lump. In my breast. I told my sister about it, your older daughter, who was helping me pack all your dishes and tablecloths and mounds of linens and platters and purses and hats and oh so many books and all the things that made you, you.
By Marilyn Davenport2 years ago in Confessions
My Mother was a Tea Smuggler
In 1941, when Hitler invaded Russia, my mother, Clara, was in college in Kyiv studying Liberal Arts. She was nineteen. She had ambitions to be a lawyer, and she had been fortunate enough to be able to go to school in Kyiv, about 100 miles from her home in Korosten, a small rural town in Ukraine close to Chernobyl, where her mother, father, two brothers, and younger sister lived.
By Marilyn Davenport2 years ago in Families
Fire
The best shower I ever took was the one at my friend’s house after the fire. It was hot and steamy. The beating water draped my body in soothing comfort. The soap was fragrant with lavender and rose. The towels were plush and neatly folded; the dry clothes, smokeless and warm. It was a shower of gratitude, a sanctuary where I could mourn and weep in disbelief. A town wiped out. Our house still standing but without heat or water. We were lucky. So lucky. It was a shower of miracles.
By Marilyn Davenport2 years ago in Earth
- Top Story - December 2021
CheaterTop Story - December 2021
I’m cheating on my husband. Two nights a week I wait until my husband leaves before I meet my love at the scheduled time. My husband is a professor and often needs to attend evening events at the University. I await those nights with anticipation. As daylight falls, I prepare and serve dinner, clean up the dishes and tell my husband how wonderful he is for working so hard and supporting our family. I breathe a sigh of relief as he finally walks out the door, coming back one more time because he’s forgotten something; his glasses, his wallet, his keys. He always forgets something. And he always comes back.
By Marilyn Davenport2 years ago in Confessions
Farina Twist
Farina Twist She would never have stepped onto the barroom dance floor but they were all doing the twist out there. Normally she is not a dancer. She is too shy, too afraid, too self-conscious to move like Gumby. But it was the twist, after all, and her friends were beckoning her to join them, and so she downed her rum and got out on the floor; after all, you can’t mess up the twist.
By Marilyn Davenport2 years ago in Families
