Mistletoe = kissing. That's how I associate the parasitic plant that is oftentimes hung above a doorway during the holidays. But what is the true history of it? Research told me that there were several theories about how mistletoe became associated with kissing.

Touch. Such a simple yet powerful action.

Not a poke or prod. Those have negative connotations and effects. They are to get attention and are harder. Who wants to be poked?

A touch is softer. It can say, “Hello, dear friend. It’s so good to see you!”

Or it can say, “Hi, my love!”

Or it can say, “You are so special!”

It was going to be two years since Pete died, her husband of nearly forty years. Thirty-nine years, seven months, and twenty-two days, Alice kept reminding herself when she felt downright depressed from the loss and the loneliness, which was often. Too often, her friends would tell her when she’d call to sob out her misery over the phone.

Jasmin, one afternoon, knowing when the neighboring field workers would pass her house after finishing work for the day, timed her plan perfectly. After throwing gasoline on her house, she lit it on fire. She’d wanted the insurance money but didn’t want all her belongings to go up in smoke; thus, her evil-minded plan to have immediate help. When she saw the dust billowing on the dirt road from the vehicles heading toward her, she started screaming for help. She knew that when seeing a damsel in distress, as well as the smoke and the flames, the men would stop and assist. They did.

Our handyman, and new friend, Will Pliner came over one early evening bringing his sister Marta, who was visiting from Texas, to meet us. He also wanted to talk to my husband Jake about a job Jake had called him about. We invited them to sit and join us for our little happy hour to talk about the job and get to know his sister. Will was more than happy to sit and have a drink, because he seemed a bit depressed, which was unusual for him. He was always happy-go-lucky.

I loved.

An unplanned happening

Of my heart, soul and being.

I didn’t mean for it to happen;

It was something just for fun.

But it happened,

Slowly,

Gradually,

Fully.

My breath caught. Just as I thought I’d never seen anything more beautiful, more colors came bursting forth just down the beach, and then more and more. Every which way we looked the sky was aflame with startling showers of vibrant hues that doubled in magnitude from their reflections on the water, the likes of which I have never experienced.

“When I turned seventy, which was ten years ago, mind you, by the time I caught Carter, that I’d just told you about, our bodies weren’t working as well as they had been before the abstinence. Carter hadn’t been maintaining the muscles needed to fuck missionary style, and my knees wouldn’t work as well either to be the one on top.”

My canvas, representing the space for love I have in my heart, is vast and empty. It stands barren against the gigantic easel waiting, hoping to be touched by an artist who will give it life, who will give it purpose, who will give it meaning.

Aside from sex, what turns you on?

Is it: Music? Art? Laughter? A beautiful view? A mountain? An ocean? Sports? Danger? Playing an instrument? Accomplishments? Getting an award? A full moon? A scary movie? Having fun? Intelligence? A beautiful face? Eyes? Other specific body parts? Animals? Flowers? Growing your own vegetables? Colors? Fast cars? Storms? The list could be endless.