Terri Barnes

I’ve been thirty and forty. I’ve been fifty. They were all good. Very good, but sixty is none of those things. Sixty is definitely a new experience, but it’s not the new forty, not a recycled or reimagined version of who I used to be.

Everyone remembers what they were doing on September 11, 2001. I’ve often wished I was doing something more significant than the usual morning routine. In the moment, I was oblivious to events that would affect every part of our military life from that day forward.

Being nerdy, geeky, or book smart now carries a cachet of coolness. I was a nerd when it was not cool—at all. Not even a little bit. I’d like to think I was ahead of my time.

Contemplating the abundance of murder-centric stories on my shelves, I’ve deduced that my affinity for mysteries is not a fixation on death but a desire to make sense of life.

We had big plans for 2020. We thought we were on our way up or at least out. Turns out we’re going nowhere—stuck between the sixth and seventh floors, wondering how long before we’ll be free again.

Looking at the engraved letters on the tiny silver spoon, a gift from a military spouse club when our first baby was born, and I thought about the lasting gifts military life has given our children -- and our family.

How do I love thee? Let me count the moving trucks. I admit, some of the reasons I love you don’t lend themselves to poetry.

After the rush of the holidays, marking the Twelve Days of Christmas provides space and time for quieter pursuits.

Is a flawless life the requirement for a perfect Christmas? Each year, I try to crank it out, but real life and a real Christmas are not like my artificial tree. I cannot bend those branches to suit my wishes.