A road not taken wasforty years ago – to trust my motherhear her advicefire the therapistwho honed my resentment against her. If I did, I would have beenIn touch with my brothersmarried youngerhave childrenbe close to my momforty years earlier. Instead, I listened to aa therapist who sharpened thevenom I had against my mother. I ...

Transforms dark moments into lessons, villains into wistful masters. Her memory chases ghosts away and clears spiderwebs in my heart. She enriches my emotional rainbow from despair and rage into peace and equanimity. The joy of walking breathing smiling. My mother’s initials wrap any twist on the road to liberation, a precious gift sharing her ...

People say I look like my mother. When I look in the mirror,I think of herand it soothes me, strengthening my heart. When I bake, my hands feel hers stretching the dough, shaping the loaf. When I taste a sweet, my eyes glitter,I feel her glee. Her voice kindlywhispers ways to smooth my path,bringing peace to my ...

She caches her jewelry Cardboard tubes under her mattress Hidden from faces she can’t remember Haunting her with changed bedsheets While disembodied voices perched on telephone wires Check on her She gripes They’re stealing my things At the liar: Voice too old to be her daughter Sunday – no – Wednesday No How can it ...

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 **Content Warning:** Contains allusions to emotional and psychological abuse at the hands of a maternal figure.

This tripod has been around. The box was dusty, shoved in a corner of the attic. Three legs. At least there used to be. I see the joints where repairs were made. The first leg is wooden but the break is new. The break is clean; smooth to the touch. No splinters prick my fingers. ...

Mom kept pacing the living room, back and forth, not saying a word. It would have been easier if she just had just come out and told us how disappointed she was, announced our punishments, and sent us to our rooms. She wanted us to apologize, to explain. Finally, I could not stand the silence ...

Mila carried a baby in her arms. The street on which she limped down shrouded in the pitch of night. A cold breeze blew in and attacked her face, fingered her hair. She held the baby tighter to her chest. Cars still being eaten by flames from the inside out cast a weak orange glow ...

I think every guy has a best buddy. My husband’s was Wayne Roantes. We did not start off as friends, him and I. I think it would be safe to say, we hated each other’s guts. Him, because I stole his friend when Jim and I got married. Me, because he was arrogant, over-bearing and ...