Tag: family (Page 1 of 5)

We Sat You at the Water’s Edge

4 May 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Aldo Giovannitti

Bruno does his business by the bench by the parish, then he pulls. This is station two of our morning circuit. The road climbs and then levels, and you trudge along, as we crawl arm in arm, the leash in my other hand. Going back, you murmur, I would try not to escape all the time from myself. Then you disengage, and let your eyes be carried by the asphalt flowing below us.

You sit on the couch, hands on your knees, your robes hung on whatever is left of you. I notice your hump for the first time, then I look at my watch. Still one hour to the next round of pills; after that there’s lunch. She bends to lay a towel on your chest, so we won’t need to clean your shirt when you’ll wake up. She knows that in the wait you’ll let your eyelids go, bring your lips apart, and abandon your head to its weight.

Your attention span has contracted to a handful of seconds, and we need to pull words out of you quick before they are gone, before they drag with them your blurred intentions. Have I run away from here searching for what was closest to you? You made it, you said seventeen years ago standing on this very rug, holding my visa in both hands, staring at my portrait superimposed on the filigreed page.

Now you can speak only a tenth of what you used to, but each word is made of rock; the unessential has fled you. I’ve never paid as much attention to what you say as I do now—mumble, in truth—and the more I listen, the more I see you too had an entire life of your own. You too have wandered the lands, swum the seas, spun through the clouds I believed were mine alone. Your world, infinite as mine; I have finally surrendered not to comprehend it.

After dinner comes the fourth and last round. You lay the pills on the tablecloth, lining them up as you did with most things in your life. This is a ritual, and we follow its steps with devotion. You unscrew the plastic bottle, tilt it together with your chest, and pour the water onto the tablecloth, beside the glass, for the time it would have taken to fill it. We let you do that without intervening, watching the water spread on the double-folded cotton, because that is the least respect we can pay. And when you set the bottle aside you find out the glass is empty. You jerk back. Fooled again. Then we fill the glass for you.

We’ve spent the last day of this rare visit, before I fly away, at the beach house you both returned to for the past fifty-two years. A silent drive got us here. And by now an entire day has passed, and Bruno has run along the water’s edge to exhaustion. We sat you on a chair in the sand, but you didn’t like the wind and turned your gaze away from the sea.

The sun has set, and I walk past your bedroom heading to mine. I see you sleep in a fetal position, hiding into the wall, holding onto the orthopedic pillow she has bought to you both. I didn’t know you slept this way now, and that she let your bedside lamp burn through the night.

The lamp is recycled from my childhood; it diffuses a dim red light. And the light fills your heart more than it fills the room, while you dream of a decades old, Italian summer.

Aldo Giovannitti writes about shifting perception, moral ambiguity, and transformation. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Open Journal of Arts & Letters, The Bookends Review, and Corvus Review, alongside essays in The Diplomat and South China Morning Post. He is a member of The Poetry Society and PEN America and is based in London.

Ghost crew

22 April 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Christopher Laird Dornin

My late father and brother
watch me sail alone
with my eyes closed in light

wind on a burning afternoon.
Ephemeral zephyrs
and ghostly shifts of air

fall and come and rise.
I feel their pulse in the tug
of the tiller, the angle of heel,

the pull of the mainsheet and the gurgle
of my bow and stern waves.
My father’s cemetery is missing

its ancient gates and stones.
He kept its address a secret
the time we sailed the Chesapeake

among the traveling molecules
of my brother, lost at sea
a long way from there.

Christopher Laird Dornin has won a NH Arts Council fellowship and placed runner-up in the Swan Scythe Press chapbook contest, semi-finalist in the Finishing Line Press book contest and semi-finalist in the Wolfson Press chapbook contest. His verse has appeared in The Lake, Oberon, Blue Unicorn, Nimrod and others.

A Small Memory

20 March 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Carolyn Chilton Casas

Some winter evenings, snow piled
against the door, my mother would open

the living room sofa bed in our one-bedroom
clapboard surrounded by woods

for us to watch TV, warm popcorn
in a blue plastic bowl, my infant brother

determinedly crawling over the blanket
to reach the treat. She taught me

to bite off the harder kernels
he couldn’t chew with just my front teeth,

place only the soft, milky pieces
in his baby bird mouth. Each time, he flashed

his big infant grin, making us laugh
over and over with abandon.

Carolyn Chilton Casas’ poetry has been published in multiple journals and in anthologies including The Wonder of Small Things, Thin Spaces & Sacred Spaces, and Women in a Golden State. More of her poetry can be found at www.carolynchiltoncasas.com and in her last book, Under the Same Sky.

Squirrel Ladder

17 March 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Kelly Kolodny

Cat hair piled up on the old shaggy carpet. The sturdy pine coffee table, built by my younger brother when he took woodworking in high school, was topped with several years of Better Homes and Gardens. A persistent stale odor wafted around furniture and throw pillows worn thin. As I sat with my parents in the den of their small ranch-styled home, week after week, I felt fatigued and overwhelmed. We had reached a point when important decisions needed to be made regarding their care, resulting in changes for them and how they would spend their remaining years. Sensing my worries and stress, their long-haired rescue dog, Caleb, often put his head in my hand. Their five cats gathered around me, bidding for my affection. Noises from outdoor feeders reminded me of my parents’ sense of protection and care for the natural world. Changes in my parents’ lives also would result in adjustments for the outdoor wildlife they supported.

Mom’s stroke occurred a few years before dad’s heart attack. Not physically visible, the stroke was a fog that rolled in and changed her interactions with others signaling something was not right. A cancer diagnosis and dementia followed. When dad had his heart attack, the doctors were unsure they would perform surgery since he was in his mid-nineties. He told them he had a family who cared for him, a garden that needed tending, and a will to live. An orchestra of voices from dad’s extended family persuaded the doctors to move forward with the surgery.

Like many seniors, my parents’ social security covered less and less of their living needs. When they became ill, I began to sift through their finances and started to understand the full extent of their fragile economic circumstances. To help, I brought groceries each week—canned tuna, bread, apples, bananas, crackers, and pre-made meals they could heat up in the microwave.

Weekly visits followed a similar routine. Unload food. Try to complete some household chores. Talk. If I was less stressed, I might have understood more clearly what my parents shared during those moments. Personal memories and life lessons were offered that later became cherished gifts.

During one visit, I remember Mom walked into the kitchen to get a drink.

“Do you want something to eat, Kelly?”

“I’m fine,” I replied.

“Oh, come look who’s in the bird feeder. It’s Timothy.”

I pulled myself up from their tattered brown couch to look at the feeder and set my eyes on Timothy, a good-sized squirrel with a fluffy tail curved into a half-circle. He filled his cheeks with seed as he rested on the edge of the feeder. Soon Timothy was joined by another squirrel. Traveling up a narrow wooden ladder my dad built, the squirrels easily reached the rectangular feeder at the window level. Enchanted with birds, my parents equally were taken with squirrels.

Feeling bold, I questioned mom about their care for squirrels.

“Some people try to keep the squirrels out of their bird feeders. They want the birds to have the seed.”

I had an idea of the response I would receive and was not surprised by it. Dressed in her Sears sweater and loose blue jeans, mom cast me an indignant look.

“Not us. We love squirrels. As a matter of fact, several of them live in our attic.”

I was not taken aback by this statement. When I was at their house, I heard noises coming from the attic which none of us had entered in years. Aware that squirrels were not helpful for the upkeep of the house, I nonetheless appreciated my parents’ care for them. They had formed a relationship with squirrels. They watched them through the kitchen window and noticed their expressions as they ate. They talked with them. The ladder was a bridge connecting my parents’ lives, filled with family, pets, and regular medical appointments, to the natural world.

“Mom, how do you know the squirrel in the bird feeder is Timothy? Can you tell them apart?”

“Not really. We name all of the squirrels Timothy. We want them to have names. Naming is important. But it would be hard to remember all of their names, especially at our age.”

Naming, similar to building a ladder, brought them closer.

After gazing out the window for several minutes, I watched mom as she sat down beside dad on the couch. Lucy, one of her feisty orange cats, burrowed into her lap and mom instinctively kissed her. Caleb slept at my parents’ feet. My parents were not ready to let go of their independence. They still had some things to share with each other and their family. We needed to continue caretaking in this manner for a while longer.

Following his heart surgery, dad stayed home for two years before he died. Mom’s dementia progressed to a point where she no longer remembered her husband died. She couldn’t recall her grandchildren’s names. When we moved her into a nursing home, we divided the pets so they were kept safe and in the family. Caleb became my dog, sitting beside me in the evenings while I planned lessons and graded college papers.

My brothers, their wives, my husband, and I spent months cleaning out and painting my parents’ home in preparation of selling it. During one of my last visits, I walked through every room. It was old, clean, and empty. There was nothing left, except the feeder and the ladder which I eyed when I looked out the kitchen window. Since the feeder no longer contained seed, Timothy did not visit. This bridge was broken—though the lessons connected to the ladder carried forward.

Kelly Kolodny is a professor of education at Framingham State University in Massachusetts. She has written a variety of academic articles and books. She also has composed book reviews for the Southern Literary Review.

The First Monarch

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Katy Z. Allen

I caught a glimpse today of hope—
the first monarch of the summer
flitted past the window,
catching my eye with its bright orange wings.

A striking orange is on display as well in the wood lilies,
whose blooming each year reminds me of my Aunt Lorraine,
a crusty New England Yankee
who always knew what was what,
accepted me without question
no matter what was changing in my life,
and who so many years ago gave me bulbs from her garden.

Today, I stumbled on a picture of her that I didn’t remember,
sitting in her New Hampshire summer garden,
and another of her with my two sons,
smiling and laughing,
when they were much younger.

My Aunt Lorraine never gave up,
never gave in
and always kept her chin up,
and thoughts of her
remind me of the butterfly
and hope.

Katy Z. Allen is a lover of the more-than-human world. She founded and led an outdoor congregation and a Jewish climate organization. Her poetry has appeared in online publications and her poetic book, A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text was published by Strong Voices Publishing.

Papa’s Garage

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah Pouliot

I stood in your garage, inhaling sawdust
like incense as you unveiled the new altar:
a dove and an olive branch etched into peeling
cedar, curled shavings scattered on cement
like split ends at a barber shop.

“There’s a sculpture inside every sapling;
my job is to set it free,” you told me—
voice as rusty as the metal bench I leaned on.
I didn’t know you were quoting Michelangelo
until “Taps” resounded from a bugle

and two men folded an American flag
into a perfect triangle—the day New
Hampshire’s bleached sky became
an ocean of arctic terns, white wings
coalescing behind their captain.

Now, I stand in your garage.
It’s cleaner than ever.
No shavings stick to my soles
as I glimpse the sallow glow of Christmas lights
Dad hangs with your hammer.

Sarah Pouliot is a poet from Titusville, Florida. She believes that poetry holds the power to bring stillness and meditative reflection amid life’s chaos, and she hopes that her writing can do this for you—even if only for a moment.

Snowball Fight

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Beate Sigriddaughter

He, twenty, blond, blue-eyed, on a walking tour through Germany, earning some money helping out at a farming estate early winter.

She, eighteen, dark-haired, with hazel eyes and with a mischievous smile, visiting her older sister who is resident housekeeper at the estate.

She is being pelted with snowballs by several young men after the day’s work is done.

He saunters to her side. “May I help you?”

I imagine her smiling her familiar smile of mischief.

They are long gone now. Though first there came a war and also my brothers and I.

Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, grew up in Nürnberg, Germany, and now lives and writes in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), USA, where she has served as poet laureate. Recent book publications include a poetry collection, Circus Dancer (2025), and a short story collection, Dona Nobis Pacem (2021).

The Weight of Christmas Past

17 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Mitch Simmons

I remember the winters when the lights were few,
When Mama stretched a dollar till the silver shone through.
My sister and I would laugh by the tree so small,
Paper stars and dreams were our gifts, that was all.

We had no feast, no glittering store-bought cheer,
But love filled the cracks of each passing year.
Mama’s hands were weary, yet her smile never waned,
And my sister’s laughter was the song that remained.

Now the table is full, and the candles gleam bright,
But silence has settled where joy took flight.
The house is warm, the cupboards abound,
Yet echoes of yesteryear are the sweetest sound.

I’d trade all the gold, all the gifts, all the means,
For one more Christmas where love filled the seams.
For Mama’s soft humming, her voice pure and kind,
And my sister’s embrace, forever entwined.

The holidays come now with comfort and pain,
A blessing of plenty, a shadow of rain.
I stand in the glow of all I have earned,
But ache for the hearts that will not return.

Still, I light a candle for each of their names,
For the lessons they taught me through struggle and flame.
Love was our treasure when times were lean,
And even in loss, their spirits are seen.

Through every twinkle, each carol and prayer,
I feel them beside me, they’re still there.

Mitch Simmons is a writer who lives in Virginia.

Lying in Wait

1 August 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Jennifer Pinto

My dog, Josie, is barking at the kitchen window, warning me of an intruder. I look out into the front yard expecting to see deer or perhaps a wild turkey but if there is danger out there, I can’t see it. She continues jumping and pawing at the glass so I look outside again, this time glancing downward at the porch situated just below the window. It’s a snake. Its three foot long body is nestled and expertly blended into the wicker of my favorite chair but its head is levitating skyward, peeking into my kitchen window. I think about how many times I sat in that chair oblivious to this danger. This unexpected interloper upends the sense of tranquility and comfort I normally feel in my beautiful yard. I’m not sure I will ever be able to relax out there again.

It’s 2004 and we were sitting at the kitchen table having family dinner when my husband reached for the salt shaker and yelped in pain. He tried to dismiss it as nothing but I knew acknowledging any sort of discomfort was out of character for him so I insisted he make an appointment with the doctor right away. I suspected it might be something as simple as a pulled muscle or a gallstone but I was wrong. This sudden sharp pain in his right side led to a doctor’s visit then an ultrasound and finally a biopsy that confirmed my husband had cancer. Primary liver cancer. The surgeon discovered a baseball-sized mass on his otherwise pristine liver. There were no symptoms, no warning signs. It’s likely these cancer cells were hiding in his body for years until the mass grew large enough to cause pain. I was a young mom with children ages eight, five, and three. It felt like the life I had envisioned had suddenly been turned on its head.

I shoo the snake off the porch with a long handled broom and watch as it slithers into the landscaping and disappears. I spend days searching for holes and researching ways to deter snakes. I eventually return to my chair on the front porch but feel like I’m in a constant state of hypervigilance. One afternoon the mailman comes to my front door with a stack of letters in his hand. I can’t deliver your mail today he says as he pulls out his cell phone and shows me a picture of my mailbox. There is a long black snake slithering up the stones encasing the mailbox and blocking the door. It is the same snake I had seen on my porch and now I’m convinced its home is somewhere close to my own. It will be months before I walk down the wooded path to retrieve the mail without a large stick in my hand.

My husband had a liver resection to remove two thirds of his liver. The healthy portion was expected to regenerate. The pathologist reported that while it hadn’t spread outside of the liver, there was some vascular invasion which meant some cancer cells had escaped into his bloodstream and could be lying in wait to cause a recurrence in another part of his body. There was no way of knowing if the cancer would appear again. I learned how to hope for the best while being prepared for the worst. We signed our children up for “Walking the Dinosaur,” a children’s cancer support group to help them deal with their feelings. My husband coped by buying me a new set of garbage cans with wheels so I could easily bring the trash to the curb and by writing out passwords and instructions for me on how to pay the bills.

The snake is like a shadow that follows me around, a vague yet niggling thought in the back of my mind. So when the HVAC man who is servicing our air conditioning unit knocks on the door and says, Do you know there is a huge black snake in your yard? I just nod and say, I know. He is a burly guy with large tattooed biceps and a long goatee. I’m surprised when he admits the snake is making him jumpy. I am no longer afraid of the snake although I remain vigilant. While I hope I never see it again, I’ve become accustomed to the idea that encountering the snake is always a possibility.

After his liver resection, my husband was scanned every three months for several years. When the scans were eventually put on a yearly schedule, he started to feel confident enough in his health that he allowed me to buy him new shoes and new clothes again. He had refused any purchases until he could be certain he would live long enough to get good use out of them. It’s been twenty years since he was first diagnosed and he remains cancer-free.

Just last week, in our basement, we caught a baby snake in a glue trap meant for mice. I’m horrified that a snake could penetrate our walls and get so close. It prompts me to stay vigilant. I remind my husband he’s due for his next scan.

Jennifer Pinto writes both fiction and creative nonfiction. She has three grown children and lives in Cincinnati with her husband. She enjoys drinking coffee at all hours of the day. Her work has been published in The Citron Review, SunDog Lit, Lunch Ticket, The Bluebird Word and Muleskinner, among others.

flowers during golden hour — Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.com

Sunrise Dances

19 July 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Hawke Trumbo

My mother taught me to slow dance.

She placed my left hand on her shoulder,
my right hand in her left.
Her right palm rested on the curve
of my spine.

Pre-fab flooring supported our steps
as my feet shadowed her glide.

We swayed in a Virginia valley
to the tune
of a Rocky Mountain hiiiiigh Colorado.

We saved time in a bottle,
lulled by the easy silence
of our pine and oak audience.

We twirled in kitchens,
perfected our timing to strums
’bout poems prayers and promises.

We pivoted as a teenager
found her feet and a mother learned
to loosen her grip.

Our arms stayed firm,
so we never lost each other.

Originally published in The Bluebird Word in November 2022.

Hawke Trumbo (they/them) is an East Coast writer and graduate of Chatham University’s Creative Writing MFA program. Their work has appeared in Coffin Bell and for the Western Pennsylvania Disability History & Action Consortium.