Tag: mother/daughter (Page 1 of 3)

Making Beds

7 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Alexandra Newton Rios

I throw the clean sheet up into the air
that my mother bought us
from the United States
to stretch it across the wide algarrobo bed
and as I center the white-and-light gray striped top sheet,
tuck each side along the bed
with the tips of my fingers
because the top sheet has not held bodies,
cradled them across the years
unlike the bottom fitted sheet grown threadbare
and sewed back into life several times,
I think of my mother before she is gone.
I have been doing this a lot lately
and wonder if the memory of her
will remain in the sheet
when I fly it into the air
and let it down on my bed.
Will memory cover me and warm me
when I need to be warmed?
How do we suddenly stretch memories
so that out of the old the new may come?
My mother taught me to fold
hospital bed corners at the end of the bed
holding sheets and blanket together.
I gained a Housekeeping badge
as a Junior Girl Scout.
We are so different.
Throughout my years in another land
where she was born I have only needed
to know she is still living.

Alexandra Newton Rios is the mother of five children and a marathon runner. Nueva York Poetry Press published Poemas de Georgia/The Georgia Poems, one long poem in 34 parts as a dialogue with American artist Georgia O’Keeffe in November 2024.

Julia’s Journal

4 May 2025 / Editor

Fiction by Robert Nisbet

Friday, July the twenty-first.
The journey from Gatwick was easy enough. Placid, six hours or so. But after an hour or two, I became aware of the couple across the way from me. They were mother and daughter, by the sound of it, and very English, genuine countryside types. You could almost picture them in tweeds, tramping along bridleways, accompanied by Basset hounds, the mother with a headscarf. (Whoa. Slow down now, Julia. That’s the feature writer in you taking over. You’re on holiday.)

It seemed that the girl might be disabled in some way, it wasn’t quite clear how. They were kind and cheerful people though and I’d quite liked having them across the way, even though we’d only exchanged a few words. But when we landed in Hamilton, our aisle had to file out very, very slowly in their wake. Clearly she had some problem.

The airport was hot, so hot, so humid, but Harry, meeting me, said, That’s Bermuda in July. We’ll get a thunderstorm tomorrow at three. Yeah, sure, I said, but he said, No, that’s our climate, babe. It’s so, so predictable. Honestly. It gets hotter and hotter, humidity building, for just three days or so, then …Whop … a cloudburst and it’s cool and settled again.

Saturday the twenty-second.
Harry was right enough, the heat this morning got desperate and at ten to three, we dived into a spacious café, everyone in sight did. We had a grandstand view, the wide street emptying, then, as he’d said … storm.

And it deluged, oh, it hammered, across the empty street. I think I was impressed as much as anything. Then I looked and saw, just across the street … Oh hell, where was Harry? … loo or somewhere … but look. Oh God. It was the mother and daughter from the plane. They can’t have been told, they were out in it. They were almost … well, not almost, they were … staggering in the weight of the water, the force of it. The girl’s disability was very clear now, her posture was wildly uneven, but the mother just stood by her girl, got her close to the wall, steadied her, trying somehow to fend off the storm.

Then, just as I’d started yelling for Harry and he’d wandered into view, three waiters ran out, into the sheet of rain … and dear God, even our eyes could barely penetrate it. They went racing across from the café, gathering in a bunch, a shield, and helped keep the daughter steady.

Five minutes and the storm had gone. Like that. Storm. Bang. Bermuda. And the waiters led them back, the mother, the daughter, back in to the café, gave them a chance to dry, then said, Let’s get you tea. Traditional English, with buttered toast.

Robert Nisbet is a Welsh writer who had many short stories published in his native land, before switching to poetry in the 2000s. Many of his poems have appeared in both Britain and the USA since then, and he is now switching back to shorter fiction.

Baby Mama in Autumn

17 April 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Laurie Didesch

For my Mom

The radiant light intensifies the blue sky. It filters
down from on high. Baby Mama and I are walking
through the kaleidoscope of colors. Baby Mama

stops awestruck. With hand to mouth, she points
to a fiery maple tree and a sunburst locust with
golden leaves. Excited, she declares, I’ve never

seen such beauty. What has happened to these
trees? The day is bright and clear in contrast to
her memory. But this moment offers a glimmer

of hope that all is not lost. Baby Mama can still
experience wonder—the pure simple joy of a
child in a moment of discovery. She reminds

me that regardless of our plight, we can still
celebrate life. We rarely stop to notice the new
in every moment. She sends a message despite

her dementia. We need only look with fresh
eyes to experience delight. However, I still
mourn her illness and it’s devastating effects.

Baby Mama and I head home. We both have
a skip in our steps knowing that the mist some
times lifts and gives us a glimpse of eternity.

Laurie Didesch has poetry appearing or forthcoming in Ibbetson Street, The Comstock Review, The MacGuffin, California Quarterly, Third Wednesday, Young Ravens Literary Review, The Ravens Perch, and Stone Poetry Quarterly, among others.

Busting Out of My Buster Browns

17 March 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Diana Raab

My mother blamed her ugly feet, laden with bunions and hammer toes, on her pointy shoes worn in the 1940s and 1950s. So, the day I took my very first step she began to obsess about the type of shoes I wore. I vividly remember the day in the 1950s, when she sat me in the back seat of her white Valiant and drove me to the local Buster Brown store in Fresh Meadows, New York. In my little frilly dress, she lifted me onto the platform, six stairs up, to have my feet measured. I remember the measurements to be quite time-consuming and scientific, and consisted of taking numerous measurements of different angles of my feet. The shoe salesman, dressed in a suit and tie, fitted my laced shoes and then ran a mobile x-ray machine over them to make sure my toes lay flat. Looking back I realize the seriousness and professionalism of his job.

From that day onwards and whenever I needed a new pair of shoes, particularly the week before the beginning of school, mother drove me back to the Buster Brown shoe store for a fitting. At school, I was the only girl not permitted to wear slip-on shoes. The week before my sixth grade prom, which I was to attend with Eric, the cutest blonde boy in the grade, I told my mother I wanted my first pair of slip-ons. Against what she called her better judgment, she agreed, but I was permitted to only wear them on that day. Even though I appreciate my mother’s gallant efforts, from that day on, I decided never again to wear laced shoes, except for sports, and became obsessed with slip-ons.

Perhaps because of this childhood trauma, as a young woman, I became obsessed with shoes of every color and style. At twenty-three, I got married and my husband called me Amelda Marcos, who was the First Lady of the Philippines and owned over three thousand pairs of shoes. When we took trips, my suitcase had more shoes than clothes!

Today, we all know that bunions and hammer toes are more related to a family history than to the type of shoes worn, although shoes can exacerbate a preexisting problem. Now in my late sixties, I have to thank my mother’s side of the family for my deformed toes and the bones growing in all different directions. I made the decision a long time ago not to become obsessed with wearing the right shoes. I wanted only beautiful shoes, because it did not matter; genetics would eventually doom me. A few years ago, when we moved into a new house, we had to build extra shelves in my closet, to accommodate every style and color shoe. Thanks, mom, for turning your obsession into my deep passion for shoes.

Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, workshop leader, thought-leader and award-winning author of fourteen books. She frequently writes on writing for healing and transformation. Her newest book is Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors, a memoir with reflection and writing prompts (Modern History Press, 2024). Visit her at https://dianaraab.com/.

Reminiscence

8 March 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Kandi Maxwell

My mother’s fingernails are perfectly painted a deep shade of red. She sits upright in her maroon leather recliner, a soft white pillow on her lap. Sunlight filters in through the sliding glass doors near the kitchen in her Southern California home. Outside are roses, geraniums, begonias. A small, green-grass lawn. I sit beside my mother. It’s lunchtime. Today, her caregiver has made a pretty plate of Wheat Thin crackers, each topped with cottage cheese and a dab of ruby-red strawberry jam in the center.

With her left hand, my mother holds her plate on top of the pillow. She uses her right hand to daintily pinch her thumb and forefinger on the edges of a cracker. Slowly, so slowly and carefully, she lifts the cracker to her mouth. She chews her cracker thoroughly before reaching for another. Her movements are measured, as she savors each bite.

When lunch is over, my mother naps and I chat quietly with my two sisters who are also visiting. The day is tranquil, as we reminisce about our childhoods. My mother, who isn’t really sleeping, occasionally throws her thoughts into the conversation making us laugh. Two days later, I fly back home to Northern California.

Although my mother had been suffering from heart failure, I didn’t know those moments would be our ending. I didn’t know how vividly memories of that scene would evoke my mother’s essence. Even now, four years later, when I miss her and need her familiarity, I picture her brightly painted fingernails; her unhurried manner; her humor. Her gracefulness throughout her physical decline and her strength in confronting mortality.

Kandi Maxwell is a creative nonfiction writer living in Northern California. Her stories have been published in Hippocampus Magazine, KYSO Flash, Raven’s Perch, Wordrunner eChapbooks, and other literary journals and anthologies. Her memoir, Snow After Fire, was released in 2023 by Legacy Book Press. Learn about Kandi’s writing at kandimaxwell.com.

Hold and Release

7 February 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Tracey Ciccone Edelist

I am floating on top of a smooth blue sky with dappled clouds that break apart with each dip of the paddle. When the wind picks up, the sky in the lake becomes partially obstructed by privacy glass ripples, obscuring both sky above and underwater life below. Gliding further south, the ripples swell, and now I’m riding dark molten silver waves, the paddleboard gently rocking across the undulating liquid metal. I expect the paddle to drip silver-plated out of the water, but the splashes on my feet are clear and wet. Entering a small bay where the sun peeks through tree canopies, the water becomes like an oil spill, smooth and slick iridescence. I listen to the rustle of the trees as blue jays flit from branch to branch just above the water, breathing in the earthy smell of the damp bank and the leaves lying in varying layers of decomposition on the forest floor. As I drift away from the shoreline, the faint hint of a bonfire wafts through the air and I see a wispy plume of white smoke rising from a cottage clearing across the lake.

Sitting on the silver waves ahead, I see the young loon I’ve watched grow all summer, enjoying an independent swim. The sun reflects brightly off her long beak, not yet having turned black. She startles when she sees me and dives underwater. When she pops back up seconds later, she’s still close. She is almost fully grown, but her feathers haven’t changed from baby gray to the signature black and white adult markings, and she hasn’t yet earned her white necklace. She disappears again and I wait for her to surface. One minute, then two minutes.

Just as I’m wondering where mama loon could be, she swiftly swims to the place from which her loonlet has disappeared. Mama dunks her head below the water’s surface, searching the dark depths for her chick. She raises her head back up to scan across the lake, calls out loudly, and dunks again. I too continue scanning the lake. At last, the chick appears a few feet away and mama and baby swim quickly toward one another, baby bumping up against mama’s breast. The loonlet makes herself as small as she can on top of the water, scrunching her body down close to the surface near mama, hoping I can’t see her, but I can.

I remember how our youngest daughter took a few weeks after birth to unfurl her body from the position she held in my uterus. Born a couple weeks early, I imagined she’d rather be back in her confined amniotic home, riding the waves of my body, than out here in the open where air hit her skin and filled her lungs, and where she had to learn to feed herself from my breast. She wailed to be held at all times, heart to heart, eyes pinched shut, in protest against the vastness of this outside world. Holding her tiny compact body with curved back, arms and legs folded and tucked in tightly toward her center, was like holding a roly-poly hedgehog curled in on itself. We called her Scrunchie, until she began to relax her legs and straighten out her backbone.

Now she stands taller than me, straight-spined, long arms and legs swinging freely in the world she explores on her own. I find solace on the lake, and call her to me when she strays too far for too long.

Tracey Ciccone Edelist has a PhD in social justice education and is a critical disability studies researcher and educator. She had a previous career as a speech-language pathologist, and then as a fine chocolate entrepreneur. Now, she’s making sense of life through creative nonfiction.

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Sikwate

12 November 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Nicole Hirt

a steaming cup
rests in my mother’s hands
water and cacao mixed
into a comfortingly bitter brew
while rain thuds on Philippine palms
water knocking at the door

twenty years later
her feet have found American soil,
and her hands now rest on mine
helping me crush saltines
to plop in the cocoa

now
I am alone in my apartment
raindrops slamming on the windows
a cup of sikwate
warming my hands

I have exchanged water for milk
and added a spoonful of sugar
but the crackers are getting soggy

so I take a sip and a bite

Nicole Hirt is a freelance writer based in South Florida. She is an editor at Living Waters Review, where several of her poems and prose have appeared in past issues. In her free time, she enjoys wandering through cemeteries, much to the confusion of the general public.

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When the Column Blooms

1 October 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Jackie McClure

There are green things
we’ve planted here.
There are things that grew
which we never planted.

Had I weeded more
while my mother was dying
I would have never
discovered the poppies,
dormant in their seed-encased husks,
under the matting of grass,
masking an old garden spot.

So you see,
we did some good here:
ripping up squares
of thickly rooted sod
to unwittingly scatter
millions of seeds,
and, unknowingly,
we fed them.

When first they rose
above the weeds
in the new-broken soil
I was spending daylight
hours by my mother’s side,
urging her to eat,
helping her to move.

When I noticed they
were to be flowers,
she had gone home,
lonely, broken, and frightened.
It took longer to reach her.

When they burst
into scarlet bloom,
dwarfing the hearty weeds

I knew they were for her:
tall, lipstick-red poppies
garish, erect, unexpected,
floating
on the thin stems
upon which everything rests.

Jackie McClure writes poetry and fiction aiming to illuminate commonplace segments of our shared landscapes. She has an MFA from Goddard College and has published most recently in Humana Obscura and Hellbender. She lives near the Salish Sea in Northwest Washington State. Her preferred state of being is swimming.

green leaf plant — Photo by Anton Atanasov on Pexels.com

Impossible Love

1 September 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Leslie Lisbona

Mom and I were talking. “I know what you mean,” she said. I didn’t have to explain much and somehow she understood. She got me in a way no one else did. She used to say, recalling Oscar Wilde, “Take away all my necessities and give me only luxuries.” But for me, having this mom—my mom—was everything. I didn’t need anything else but her.

I was unmarried and about to turn thirty. My boyfriend lived in Mexico, and if I married him, which everyone wanted, I would have to leave her and live there.
Mom and I sat side by side on the couch. I held Paul Auster’s book, Leviathan, on my lap. We had both just finished reading it. “I want to go to the Strand during the week,” I said.

“I’ll meet you there after work,” she said.

We both sighed simultaneously, and this made her laugh.

With my toe, I pushed the ashtray a few inches over on the coffee table. It sat unused and shiny since she had quit smoking. Still, her asthma came suddenly sometimes, and the furniture had a faint smell of cigarette smoke. She examined her nails and looked disappointed with them.

“Shall we go to a movie together?” she half-whispered.

“Yes!” I said, and I reached for New York Magazine to do research. I found My Fair Lady in the city.

“Let’s go now!” she said.

I ran upstairs to get ready. I felt like I was five and someone had handed me an ice cream cone. Afterwards, on the drive home on Queens Boulevard, we sang “I could have danced all night” as we both looked straight ahead.

It wasn’t long after this that I lost her—with no warning. Her not being with or near me was inconceivable. I married a year later, someone I really loved and who lived nearby. We have two grown sons. But the luxury of having someone who understands me so deeply remains elusive.

Leslie Lisbona has been published, most recently in Wrong Turn Lit, The Bluebird Word, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. In March, she was featured in the New York Times Style section. She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY.

The Marimekko Dress

10 August 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Katharine Davis

My mother bought me a Marimekko dress,
a dress from Finland, a cool and distant land replete
with fjords, icebergs, wild reindeer and elk.
A dress to wear following my wedding at
my grandmother’s farm, a dress for going away.

All went as it should: a tent in the garden,
dahlias robust and in bloom on a blazing August afternoon,
with views of the covered bridge across the field.
A small gathering of family and friends,
my father in a blue blazer, my mother in gauzy watermelon pink.

Tea sandwiches followed by cake and French Champagne.
No music, no dancing, the scent of mown hay wafting in the white haze,
my sisters, flowers in their hair, sneaking cigarettes behind the barn.
After tossing the bouquet, I slipped on my Marimekko dress,
neatly pressed, blue and white, wavy horizontal stripes.

My Marimekko dress was cool against my skin. Expensive, well-made,
the perfect fit, just right for starting another life.
My mother died two years later. The farm was sold, and fifty years have passed.
But in my dreams, I see it still, a shirt-waist dress with silver buttons,
worn by me, but chosen by my mother.

Katharine Davis is the author of three novels: Capturing Paris (included in the New York Times suggestions for fiction set in Paris), East Hope (winner of the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance 2010 award for fiction), and A Slender Thread.