• Mom in the Making

    What makes a mother? Too many things to mention. And we all have our own definitions. Our own ideas. And our own memories. Or we might have a void where those memories should’ve been. But whether we can claim the usual definition of “mom” in our life or not, I bet we all have someone who filled at least parts of that role for us. It might be our father, grandmother, friend, teacher, or even a mentor. Being a mother isn’t always about biology. Being a mother is about being there. I had lots of plans for my life when I was younger. Motherhood wasn’t at the top of any of…

  • It’s Only Just A Dream

    The smooth scent of vanilla slides over me. A hand rests on my shoulder and I cover it with mine—trace the bumpy veins on loose, spongy skin. I open my eyes. Grandma kneels beside my chair, dressed in her favorite outfit—blue sweater, matching pumps, and pearl clip-on earrings. I bite my lip. She’s not supposed to be here.

  • Courting Catastrophe

    The gun was small and black. It looked plastic.  A party raged in the apartment next door—music blared, people laughed. Oblivious to the nightmare transpiring in my living room. My mind sprinted forward, sorting through the possibilities of how the next few minutes could play out, while my body melted into the couch, overloaded with the mental pictures my mind produced. I should yell. Run. Do something.

  • Why Bother?

    Some days I wonder why I bother to do anything for myself. Whether it’s reading a good book, which I’ve relegated to the quiet hours of late night. Taking a nap, which happened once last year. Or making good on my promise to write a little bit every day, which I’m attempting to do now. I began the edit of this article at 9:30 a.m. and it’s now 11:17 a.m. 600 words. One page. Plus a barrage of questions from the three children who occupy my house. One by one, they rotate in to stand at the foot of my bed. I tiptoed into the bedroom earlier, when I thought…

  • Chosen By Him–A Perfect Fit

    http://www.crosswalk.com/faith/women/chosen-by-him.html  (link to this article in Crosswalk) The valet line in front of the Ritz Carlton stretches down the street and winds around the block. After handing off my keys, I register for the charity auction at a table on the patio, and enter the conference area. Chaos. Women adorned in cocktail dresses, high heels and matching jewelry—at nine in the morning—mill from table to table, clutching numbered stickers and small goblets stained with lipstick. Heels. I should’ve worn heels. I look down and notice how my black flats highlight the bruise covering my big toe. My dress, while cute—a Dillard’s outlet steal—hides beneath an old black cable sweater. A…