1Mar 5, 2021
Five minutes before we leave for school, I come down to check on Riley. Before I left the room in search of a shower, while she attended to what-I-don’t-know upstairs, I prepared for leaving at the right time, filling in steps I know otherwise will take her too long. I collected her morning pills (yes, […]
2Oct 18, 2019
The pavement stretches, dappled in shadow. I walk, looking down, weighted by a thousand things, watching my feet. Those feet, they pound tired, thunking against the road. I move past a puddle, a murky earth-carved divot full of leftovers from yesterday’s rain. In my heart, I replay hurtful conversations; I am cistern, collecting disappointment. On […]
3Jul 22, 2016
When Loggerhead turtles hatch, they are the same color as the sand.  We have to lean down to see, after a  friendly woman—a stranger wearing a pink baseball cap and salt-smeared eyeglasses—beckons to us, backlit by the sunrise.  Initially blind, we wonder what she could possibly have to show us in the middle of that broad stretch […]
4May 6, 2016
Her hair blows against my cheek, just one errant, brassy strand. Â She laughs, and I laugh with her, taken by those eyes that have always been as blue as the sky just before a storm. Â “You know, this is how it would have to be with us,” she says, lifting a hand toward the door, […]
5Sep 18, 2015
Quiet in the kitchen, except for the sound of my fingers skooshing through flour and egg, sugar, spices; soft-thumping against the sides of the stainless bowl.  These cookies only come together by touch.  They resist the spoon.  Fall comes, and it smells of cinnamon and clove, candied ginger minced fine under the shiny, sharp edge of […]
6May 1, 2015
He’s in a thousand tiny things: Â the way one strand of Riley’s hair falls unevenly across her forehead, the rich sound of Zoe’s laughter—and mine—over song lyrics she misinterprets, the faintest hint of flowers on the breeze when I open the back door and walk across the porch. Â The bird feeders, empty, swing ever so […]
7Nov 7, 2014
Early morning and the coffee steams.  I wrap my fingers tightly over ceramic, breathing in the morning, stopping hungrily beside a window to gather up the light breaking in the sky, the emerging lines of trees, the faint colors of gold and orange and emerald. I feel desperate for a few moments of quiet waking. “NO, […]
8Aug 9, 2013
I bring my children home in the afternoon, as the sun beats hot on the pavement, and the one talks so quickly the words stick to each other as they pass through her lips.  She has stories and I was like and then questions and what are we and then she fills in the space by […]
9Mar 2, 2012
Sometimes, I’m thankful for autism. On days like Tuesday, when Riley jumps in the van and puts her fingers on my shoulder, waiting. Â When I look back at her and she smiles, words tumbling out, words like these, words that cut me sharp but leave her pristine: “Mom, today someone said a bad word at […]