Tag: author
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Grandad.
My grandfather carved boomerangs. Which is strange to write. Not because he carved boomerangs (though it was strange, in the most endearing way). Strange to write of him in the past tense. He died a few weeks back, and while it seems silly to write about him here, it feels equally silly not to. Here…
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What’s in a Workstation?
Fact: The biggest baby is at daycare and the littlest is still so little that bringing her anywhere with me is like taking along a particularly cute potato. Other Fact: While I’m crazy excited for today’s office glow up, courtesy of (tag), I don’t really need it. There was a time I thought I did.…
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Of Ink and Water
Throughout my four years in college, people will tell me that The Arts won’t land me a real job. I almost believed them, too.
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To the Lady in the Poultry Aisle
You didn’t know that I’d flipped my car mirror down to check if my eyes were still red before hauling my toddler into the store. You didn’t see me sitting on the bed, sniveling quietly as I could while my toddler screamed for me from her timeout spot for the fourth time that morning. You…
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Mother.
As the day comes to a close, I watch the clouds settle in over the mountains and I can’t help but think how everything about them speaks Mother: Soft, pink, and all-encompassing. Able to drape her soft body around even the mightiest masterpieces until all is shrouded in the delicate mist of her touch. She…
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Where Words are Born
I want dark frayed linen and mismatched china on the windowsill. Woolen socks drying on the line in early morning, meandering fog and dried nailed lavender above the sink. I want stone hues, silk scarves that always seem to stay put, and the slow drip of a copper faucet. People walking bikes along the path…
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Only and Everything.
It is August of two thousand twenty one. I am rocking my daughter to sleep, listening to the sound of uninterrupted life that comes from our company on the other side of the door. Good, hearty laughter, the ringing of wine glasses, and the passing of bread. I count the seconds until she is asleep…
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No, Artists Don’t Have a Creative “Sixth-Sense.”
When my daughter was a newborn, I’d wake up in the middle of the night just a few moments before she would. From perfect sleep, my eyes would flicker open to the dark silence of a still room. Then, after a minute or two, my daughter’s little body would sidle back and forth, and she’d…
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Nashville.
Some things are too terrible to feel. Somewhere in the deepest, most primitive part of the brain, a spark is lit; a mechanism switches on. The brain turns one palm out, and wraps the other around the heart. Do something. Everyone is screaming at the sky, their voices a choir of unharmonious clamor. Lips curl…
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The Race of Faithfulness
I’m reading my book. Not as in, my book of the month, one I pulled off the shelf at the charming but over-priced bookstore on Main Street. (Yes, my town has a true-blue Main Street, that is in fact the main street on which to be). I’m reading my book. I’ve finished my novel, you…
THE CARTRIDGE 