The Pyre

I want to feel packed in      the weight of feet of snow      the heaviness of the moist granules gnashing at my skin     an unfit wrapping for its interior I want to feel suffocated      breath constricted in my chest      fingers laced around my neck reaching across its expanse     anxiety building until r e l e a s e

I’ve been thinking a great deal about motherhood lately. About my own mother, my grandmother who raised me, and even myself as a mother. About its essence, its challenges, and its victories. About my oldest, recently 18, who moved out of my home only to return weeks later (to my relief). About my youngest, recently 13, who strikes a fragile balance between wisdom beyond her years and naïveté of one much younger (to my consternation).  My reflection has led me to many conclusions, one of which is motherhood comes with a lot of . . . How can I put this delicately? Well, it comes with a lot of stupid shit. 1. Being a mother makes me special. Nearly ¾ of American women have children, according to Gallup . Now, I may not be a math whiz, but how does being part of the super-super-majority make one exceptional? This is not to say that being a capable mother is easy or trivial, but the state of motherhood is in itself the norm. 2. My children are not average. Aver...

Some say                "trial by fire"                                    a weary cliche But much more vibrant                                    in first person The sting of the flame                                    suffocates But most fail to acknowledge          the true test              after               the               fire Once all is built back up and tucked in place the broken glass swept away the sooty surfaces wiped clean              then the pressure mounts       ...