summer’s parting sighs

it took me the first two months of summer to catch up. you were older this summer. you didn’t want to go to the zoo.  again. you didn’t want to go to greenfield village.  again. i kept getting frustrated that this summer wasn’t quite like the last one. i slowly figured it out. you’re growing

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making beds

children pick up dolls and start to play while i pull bed sheets tight across twin mattresses. “let’s make this bed, please.” someone totters over to the other side and begins to chant, “tuck.  tuck.  tuck.” i am down on my knees and i watch my son’s legs walk past me.  it seems all pant

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the family vineyard

my mother is worried. the grapes ripen on the vine and the white clouds sit in bluest sky. i agree. there’s a lot to worry about. she’s telling stories. grandma bessey’s house.  she and her brother and sisters would stay there when her parents fought too long.  grandma bessey, a savior of sorts, with her

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i’d like to say something serious. really, i would. but i can’t. there are problems of pride and humility to solve.  there are confessions to be made and stories to tell. but i just can’t right now. there’s barely any summer left. the forecast has seven yellow suns lined up all in a row. these

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great lakes of time

she’s arranging each tiny fish and making up a story.  she whispers it quiet.  these past weeks she’s crossing a line.  it’s happening right now.  it’s flowing downstream. time keeps its pace. i haven’t handled summer that well. i’ve let time slip without intention.  kids scramble and argue.  i run to catch up instead of

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a note for moms managing summer

my mother doesn’t come home from the gym. my mother comes in from the garden. she works out.  she works hard.  she sees the work in front of her. what needs to be weeded, what needs to be moved, what needs to be planted. it’s as if the whole earth is a child to take

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girlfriend is better

“we’re you afraid to get pregnant again?” some questions tell more than they ask. no. a simple answer to a complicated heart. let’s unmask the question, shall we? “did you consider sterilization after you had a child with down syndrome?” “were you so devastated that you didn’t get a perfect baby that you swore off