tiny love stories he was my mothers type not mine EHqQNTjz

“My” Type

“I want to set you up with someone,” my mother said. I was immediately suspicious. “A friend’s son?” I asked. She paused, then said, “I did a bad thing.” To my horror, she created a JDate account, impersonating me. “I just wanted to find you someone to run with,” she said. Curiosity won: “My” profile was cringe-worthy, but the runner who wanted to meet “me” wasn’t so bad. After I confessed to my mother’s misdeeds, we met. He was my mother’s type, not mine. I had to rewrite the profile. I was astonished by the next guy. We’ve been running together since 2002. — Rebeca Robboy

Selfie while running with our daughter. 


‘Laughing Like She Was In Life’

Whenever I visit my grandfather in Louisiana, a naïve glimmer of hope in me expects to see my grandmother, who died when I was 14. I was only 14 when she died. She didn’t know that her only grandchild, her granddaughter, was actually her. She loved Japanese beckoning cats. I found one recently and put it snug among the others on my grandparents’ mantelpiece. They’ll beckon her forever. My grandmother is often seen in dreams, dressed in a vest and laughing as she was in real life. In a recent dream, she called my name Vitoria. I woke up crying believing she saw me. — Vitoria Perez

The cats on my grandparents’ mantlepiece.


Telepathy to Almost Twins

Will, my brother who can fix anything, always has a pocketknife. I’m four years older, but we share a bit of twin telepathy. He’s a devoted, much-loved uncle, even if he doesn’t often attend my children’s school or sporting events. Weeks after my marriage imploded, I dragged myself to my son’s baseball game. I sat by myself, suffering from my inner demons, after having drawn some social battle lines. At the bottom of the first innings, someone surprised me by taking my seat adjacent. Will didn’t say a word. He just wrapped his strong, large arm around my shoulders. — Natalie Moore Brandt

My brother, Will, reading to Dillon. 


Join the Circus

At my advanced age, falling in love seemed insane. I was able to feel the joy of being with Bernie. His hobby was circus history. My first thought: “Weird.” Still, I walked down creaky basement steps to admire his miniature circus parade. After a few weeks, I was able to go along with him to make circus exhibits. Got him coffee. Talked with anyone interested in circus history. I even co-authored a book with him about historic buildings. My mind is filled with memories. Bernie died, unexpectedly. I remember the fun times we shared, and our unexpected love. Life’s a circus. — Mary Bowman-Kruhm

Bernie’s model circus parade.

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