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By Steph Whitehouse Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence This is a topic is often shrouded in secrecy that I almost hesitate to write of it. Yet my hesitation only adds to the secrecy when in fact, it needs to brought out into the open. It must be done so that others do not feel so isolated and know they are not alone. By sharing our stories and knowledge we can feel united and end the shame and secrecy around domestic violence.
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By Sarah Harley "A light here required a shadow there". – Virginia Woolf Along with threads of cotton, lengths of garden jute twine, my mother’s brown hair that fell out in soft, abandoned clumps after the radiation and chemotherapy treatment – the paper dolls were cut with the blunt edge of the tarnished silver scissors. The scissors lived in the darkness of the kitchen drawer, the one above the pitch black cupboard where my mother hid the alcohol.
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By Amy Lee “The past does not trust us yet, but I do. I do" The path from girlhood to womanhood can be fraught with complexity, fragility and even spiritually incomplete without a full reflection and reckoning. Anastasia DiFonzo’s A Certain Serenity fearlessly revisits and navigates through the journey from girlhood to womanhood with poetry that is ravishingly raw and rare.
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By Marie-Eve Bernier She would playfully ask the same two questions.
“Do you prefer to sit on a rocking chair or a stable armchair?” and “Do you prefer sweet or salty treats?”. This was her failproof ‘scientific’ test to figure which genes her grandchildren had inherited. My grandmother’s maiden name is Fillion, which meant she liked to sit on stable chairs and preferred salted snacks, while my grandfather’s surname is Cloutier, otherwise known for enjoying rocking chairs and having a sweet tooth. She would take great amusement if one of her grandchildren showed traits of both genes, such as if one liked salted chips but also enjoyed a rocking chair. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Maria Newsom As executor of my late great Uncle Harry’s estate, my mother inherited a box of short stories. Miraculously, this collection of hand-typed, double-spaced sheets of medium-weight paper survived four cellar floods in my parents’ Brooklyn home. Each time the waters abated, mom was relieved to find the box dry. Still, it never came upstairs. Eventually, my parents moved upstate, and the box moved to a new basement. It still hadn’t come above ground when I visited them last summer and found it downstairs, wedged between rolls of Santa Claus paper and a dust-shrouded set of Encyclopedia Britannica.
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By Bharti Bansal I am going to be 25 this year.
It sounds like a good number only when you remember that you are at an age when your mother got married. It seems a good deal to me when I realize that at my age, my mother had two kids already. But this isn’t the hard part. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Owen Patterson I don't have a favorite childhood vacation memory. Although, one vacation does stand out.
In the mid '70s... I was 9 or 10 years old. We vacationed in Orlando, Florida. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By George Leipold It was an unseasonably warm day in April.
“I can’t go on another walk. We won’t find him.” I said with defeat and exhaustion in my voice. “I know,” said my roommate, “I’ll go.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mom’s calendar page boasted a busy week that August when she was living at Napa’s Redwoods, a retirement community. There were the usual events: Bingo, Wednesday luncheon, hair appointment, church. But that week, the activities director had organized two extra bus trips. Monday was a winery visit. Wrapped in the heady perfume of ripening grapes, guests would sample hors d’oeuvres and sip wine against the backdrop of Napa Valley’s lush vineyards. And for my eighty-two-year-old football-loving mother, Tuesday sounded even better. The Oakland Raiders had their summer training camp in Napa; Redwoods residents would watch the Raiders, and then go to lunch.
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By Meaghan Curley Incandescence by Mehreen Ahmed is equal parts endearing, philosophical, and sentimental.
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