Publications

It’s been 200 years since Whitman’s birth and 15 years since my husband’s death and the two are not connected, other than the fact that Walt’s self-made crypt is down the lane from my husband’s grave.

We heard the strangest sounds coming from the front porch, a squawking and an unworldly scream. The children fled into the kitchen, scared and yelling, which is what I wanted to do, too. But I had to handle whatever this was.

When our daughters Allison and Hayley were 13 and 11, and our son Chris was 6, my husband, their father died. Although he had cancer, until his final 24-hours doctors assured me that he was going to turn things around, so I told our kids that he’d be home any day and we’d go fishing by the end of the summer.

My sister was an alcoholic, and passed away from complications of the illness last summer. My mother died without that label but with many of the issues. I enjoy having drinks, but I don’t drink every day and I don’t drink to get drunk. No one takes alcohol more seriously than me; that’s why people are surprised about my parenting choices.

When my son just started 10 grade, he told me he was invited to a party where there would be alcohol. In the same breath, he told me he didn’t want to go. We talked and I told him I’d trust his choice; I wanted to keep the conduit of conversation open between us, I wanted him to trust me as well.

I want to write Adam Goldberg a letter and tell him that I love his show, (ABC’s “The Goldberg’s”) but he’s rendered his mother Beverly as a cartoon.

After a terrible loss, Kathleen Volk Miller and her kids do the unthinkable: choose joy.

I was in my office in Philadelphia when my phone signaled a text. It was from a mom in my neighborhood and she said, “I’m about to send you a photo that is upsetting, but I’d want to see it if I were you.”

Your child is coming home for Thanksgiving, for 3 days or 5 days or a week. You haven’t seen him since parents’ weekend in late September, and what with all of your time together being in public—the school’s organized events, the restaurants, the hotel—that visit barely counts.

I’m a college professor, and your son or daughter has spent more time with me than you the past two months.

My mother and sister disappeared into the drink. I'm careful to watch myself -- except when I slip.

A flash piece about manifesting, psychic abilities, and bad things happening to good people.

When we lost my husband to cancer, my family's world went upside down. We made sense of it the best we could.

My 20-year old daughter, Allison, who has her own apartment in Philadelphia, sent me a text the other day:  “I need socks and dandruff shampoo.” I laughed aloud and texted back, “I need deodorant and coffee filters.”

1000 words on growing up in a haunted house!

In response to Tuesday’s post about different levels of parental tolerance of teenage sex, Jennifer, from Norwood, N.J., wrote, “There’s probably some middle ground between ‘not under my roof’ and discussing your favorite positions over breakfast.”

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Jennifer, meet Kathleen Volk Miller, who teaches at Drexel University and edits the Painted Bride Quarterly there.

A response from Kathleen Volk Miller, whose essay about her very frank talk with her daughter led to a lot of equally frank responses.

I argue with myself as I leave my house and on the drive to his house and all the way up until I ring his doorbell. The broken blood vessels around his nose are purple in the light that hits him when he opens the door. I follow him up the stairs to his apartment. He is barefoot and his toes stick out at almost a 45 degree angle.

We’ve always noticed the connection between sex and death, but food might be more complicated:  cooking for someone, and even eating itself, might be the antithesis of death; it’s an act of optimism. We expect the guests to show up.  We expect to be around long enough to burn the calories. It’s overtly primal, of course, a base instinct, and “I’m hungry” is more acceptable to say aloud than “I’m horny.”  Food satisfies. Eating is a sensual experience. Going out for a lovely dinner or cooking a meal for someone, than having sex with them, is a perfect date, a perfect way of sharing time, of sharing ourselves. When someone dies, food memories stay connected to them, smells and tastes can bring them back.