THE OTHER WOMAN by CARO EMERALD. Story by Lucia Nardo.
Believing herself unloved and unlovable had splintered her heart. Her desperate lifeās search was to find someone to piece it back together.
Believing herself unloved and unlovable had splintered her heart. Her desperate lifeās search was to find someone to piece it back together.
The sweet, pure voice of Connie Francis singing Italian Lullaby hurtled me back to an encounter in a cafƩ that spoke to me tenderly of parenthood.
Each day, another bit of independence falls away. His piano accordion, once his faithful daily companion, is silent. Dad can barely lift it.
At home and still in my funereal black, I do the obligatory YouTube search for the track. The internet soon shepherds me away from The Kingās back-catalogue to a tear-invoking power-ballad from a band Iād followed since the 1990s.
I love my sonās tattoos. The latest addition is the word 'imagine' on his right upper arm.
Itās doubtful Bob Fosse had in mind a conservative calisthenics club in Melbourneās industrial west when he choreographed All That Jazz in 1975.
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We engaged Joie's Mazda 818's unofficial air conditioningātwo windows down and eighty kilometres an hourāand raised our voices in chat and song over the wind streaming into the car.
Lucia Nardo Melbourne, June 1992 While it is true that in death we travel alone, wherever it is George Michael has gone, he's taken a part of me with him.
Lucia Nardo Family gathering, Melbourne, 1996 I felt a plum-size lump, unyielding to my touch. Dan yelped with pain. That moment is etched in my memory. I knew our lives were about to change. I wanted to push the lump back down, along with all the terror it was about to unleash.