By Joan Axelrod-Contrada Fred’s ghost circles the room. A gust of cold air hits me in the face, and I drop a new coral-colored bra I’m packing for Date #10 with The New Guy. The shadowy apparition dips precariously close to my head. “Stop dive-bombing me!” I yell. “I need to get your attention.” “You …
by Joan Axelrod-Contrada I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my favorite plum-colored corduroys and yanked with all my might. “Come on,” I muttered, determined to show who wore the pants in the family. The cords cooperated reluctantly as I shimmied like a go-go dancer to get them over my thighs. So far, so …
by Joan Axelrod-Contrada Freddy courted me with nature. He took me to Breakheart Reservation in Saugus on a crisp fall day in 1983. “Did you ever notice how the woods smell like cornflakes?” he asked. “No, but I like that.” A breeze blew through my hair, and it felt like happiness. Freddy’s brain worked sideways, …
By Joan Axelrod-Contrada My husband, Fred, banged on the wooden gate blocking off the stairs. “What do you need?” I asked. “My nail clippers,” he said. I rushed upstairs, then heard a noise that made me cringe. A chair dragged across the floor. No, not again. I found Fred with one foot on a wooden …
