Oxygen
No matter how many kids fill your house, they’ll fill your hours. Like air— a gas will expand to fill a container. A body will mine its own bones to feed a growing child. A mother will strip away everything she thought she needed to live and still live, propelled by purpose. A little god to serve with wholehearted devotion. Brittle bones and lank hair, offerings on the altar, sanctified and sanctifying. Necessary as the air in her lungs.
What I Said (and Didn’t) on a Sushi Date with a New Friend
Will you pass the soy sauce? Can we pass on small talk? What makes you cry in the shower? Should we share a sake sampler? Can I share that my harsh words made my daughter scream on the first day of school? Should we try the sashimi? Can we try sitting on my back porch, watching darkness fall on our naked faces? Which roll was your favorite? What’s your favorite way to come back to yourself, to remember you are more than Mom? Let’s split the check. I’ll show you all the ways my heart has split open. Will you show me yours?
Déjà Vu
My daughter’s first déjà vu happens at a Wisconsin dairy in the middle of nowhere. I know this place, she says, even though we’ve never been here before, even though we’ve never done any of this— taken this route home from the Island, walked hand-in-hand down this potholed street, counted the trucks from this fingerprinted window. I do not explain to her how the mind can misfire, how familiarity can be false, how one can remember without ever really recalling. I do not tell her that I feel it, too. It is August, and I am becoming someone I’ve never been, taking a route home I’ve never taken, standing in the potholed street saying See? I know this place, even though I don’t. I am scared and brave, and I have done many things, but I’ve never done this. I have been many places, but I’ve never been here.
Aging GracefullyÂ
Every night I go to battle with the gray hairs on my head waging a futile war against a regenerating army that I’ve tried to surrender to tried to make peace with but it’s a compulsion, an obsession something I can’t ignore like the weeds I pass on the way to the mailbox and pull out by the roots on the way back I don’t mind getting older but the aging strands mock me in the mirror and removing them is such an easy fuck you such an easy kill
Synaptic Pruning
The brain prunes past pains and I’m happy to lose those, but what if it prunes the memory of your toes? Those ten tiny toes that wiggle and wave, they’re the memory I’d most like to save. I’m happy to lose chemistry, countries, and even my shoes. But those toes, those toes, and how tiny you are, nestled here on my chest. I know what it means to be idle and blessed.
New Wings
She blinks up at me, innocent and waiting for me to protect her. But this time, I need to give her a push instead of holding her close. She doesn’t want to stretch her new wings. She’s worried it will be too hard too boring too different. With tears in my eyes, I let her fly. Because she might not believe it now, but I know she’s going to soar.
Holding Onto Hope
It’s like air slipping through the fineness of a feather. It’s like standing on the outskirts of any half of any whole, just reaching for the hem of something holy. It’s like navy on night, like cool on morning, like sound on sleep, like yellow on yolk, like new on born, like wanting to need, or needing to want, it’s like nothing and everything you could ever actually hold. This business of hope doesn’t have a handle or corners or curves. And yet, it’s here. It’s right here, like today on the porch of tomorrow.
(S)MOTHER
I have this urge to swallow you up inside my skin — this shaking body suddenly preferable to the messy madness of the outside world. Bone of my bone, blood of my blood: loving you is muscle memory. Mothers make the best houses. Let me build you a city inside my skeleton, each vessel a brick, each vein a victory song shouting only your name. I’d give you the world, but what is it offering? Better to bet on the body that beats only for you. Listen, do you hear it? Every cell says to stay.
When I asked ChatGPT to roast my InstagramÂ
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SO many good ones this time around. Thank all you ladies for sharing your wonderful thoughts with us.
💛!!!: "I know what it means
to be idle and blessed."
(And so many other beauties.)