By Joy R. Wilson Parrish

There is a crack in the plaster that starts
in the corner up there at the ceiling (where the fairy lights used to hang).
I trace its travels with my thumb as it meanders down along
the edge of the Mississippi where New Orleans and
Lake Michigan connect
and watch it  turn near the hand print of a 5 year old dressed like
Harry Potter.
Your house was always Gryffindor.
Your sister prophetically claimed Slytherin
and Ravenclaw was mine.
Hufflepuff stood empty in the year the crack appeared.
The crack in the plaster dips and widens, flows past a shipyard of scummy
tape remnants where images of Lizzie McGuire and then Nick Jonas replaced
the vintage framed covers of Madeline and Charlotte’s Web and
Where the Wild Things are.
(I’ll eat you up I
love
you
So.) It
stops at the floor boards.
Wide, knotted pine planks worn pale by the feet of
160 plus years and
made sweeter in the last 18
are now festooned with glitter and blue nail polish,
covered with discarded socks and open trunks of
school supplies
and
coffee cups.
A single red high heel holds hands with a custom nike runner embroidered
KP &
CC.
Rhinestone fragments of
prom dresses and Halloween
chocolate kisses float
through
the air.
I try to catch them.
They slip through my fingers along with the years I am trying to
hold on to.
I remember holding you at 5 days old
in another old house with a foundation cracking well before
Katrina came.
The mud of the Mississippi filled the chinks in the floorboards
and shored up the levies of
my postpartum defeat.
My tears were a steady drip upon the
blanket given to my mother
by her own mother,
and then to me.
“I don’t know how to do this but
I’ll try to do my best”,
I said to you back then.
I hope I did,
I still don’t know.

I wrap that old house memory in the satin of your first recital dress,
push it to the back with the volleyball medals and
make room for the waterfall of notebooks and ink pens and
Starbucks cards hastily packed.
I still don’t know what I’m doing but I’ll try my best to
let you go
with grace.

I listen as the crack in the plaster ticks and
tocks,
then the dust settles down.
And this old house that has watched you dance and
watched you grow
watched you dream and watched you fly,
Now
in its everlasting wisdom,
watches me,
as I watch you
step on to the floorboards of your brand new life.

(for Kelsey)

© 2015 Joy R. Wilson Parrish

Joy R. Wilson Parrish resides on the shores of Lake Michigan with an assortment of rescue animals and, occasionally, her two college-aged daughters. Along with her two collections – Sojourn and Rust – her poetry has been published in journals worldwide.

11 p.m. almost. Subway to streetcar. Transfer.
Arms full of everything. Another stop. Waiting.
Small cup of coffee, downtown McDonald’s.
Her son now asleep across her lap, in a parka
for comfort more than warmth.
Gently her fingers trace the soft brow.
Her smile is faint.
Still in her teens; too young for motherhood.
She called it an accident, and not a mistake.
Mistakes are missing the bus, leaving a sock
at the laundromat, or forgetting her lunch
in the rush to make it to her dead-end job,
or daycare. Accidents happen.
Left home at sixteen, who would know
if her own mother even cared. Or noticed.
Her son is everything.
Only a partner, not much older than her,
but still here. His family is far away,
and still not there. He has a purpose.
Commitment is a word they both respect.
Love grows when allowed.
He works two jobs.
The streetcar ride is time together.
November is chilly. Lost in a big city.
Together. They often use the word family.
Too much is riding on chance
and the next paycheque. Rent, bills, diapers,
groceries and the unexpected.
She eats less, not always by choice.
He says he wants more; he will work for it.
He does. Soon off work, another streetcar.
Subway transfer, then home
to all they can afford. Together.
You will see, she whispers to the sleeping child,
more often than not money is not as important
as they make it out to be.

© 2018 j.g. lewis

By Heather Marr

Motherhood is. . .

Reheating that third of a cup of coffee for the third time.

A constant pile of laundry—maybe clean, if it’s my lucky day.

A small hand in mine on the walk to daycare.

A not-as-small-but-just-as-soft hand in mine on the walk from school.

After years of grumbling about it, suddenly understanding that this is THE LAST TIME I’ll have to accompany my son during the whole weekday-morning, seven-minute-long, stripping-off-the-piles-of-snow-clothes deal…
…because next year he’ll be in kindergarten and doing it all himself, without me.

Feeling melancholy about all the “lasts” in life I missed while they were happening.

Grumbling again when a mid-spring snowstorm renders null and void that “last” I was actually fully present for.

Rereading Anne of Green Gables with my daughter at the same age I was when I first read it…
…and delighting in how truly well-written it is and how progressive Lucy Maud Montgomery was for the time.

Rereading the Little House series with my daughter at the same age I was when I first read it…
…and being horrified by how racist Ma was.

Cracking up at Teen Titans Go! at least as much as the kids do.

Realizing my son picked up those questionable phrases from Beast Boy…but my daughter picked up those curse words from me.

Feeling proud when my kids, without shame or giggling, use the correct names for their genitalia.

The gift of an unsolicited “Mommy, can I hug you?” from my daughter, age 10.

Attempting to write this piece uninterrupted—unsuccessfully—while said daughter is home from school, sick and apparently bored (too bad).

@2018 Heather Marr

Heather Marr is a Montreal-based writer, editor, mom of two, certified birth doula and owner of Rio Doula Montreal riodoula.ca, world traveller, native Californian, and lover of long runs and coffee. She strongly believes that life is about the journey AND the destination. Follow her on Facebook www.facebook.com/riodoulamtl and Instagram.

by Abena Buahene
I grew up believing there was something magical about Sunday mornings.

Snuggled deep in my featherbed as frost from a Canadian winter framed the window, or laying on top of a crisp sheet and breathing the scent of Freesias that had hitched a ride on a Mediterranean breeze to my bedroom, Sunday mornings, no matter where in the world we lived, always had their own predictable and comforting rhythm.

I would lay there in that delicious state of being awake, but not quite ready to jump out of bed and begin the day. Unlike the other days of the week where mornings were about getting to school, work, or Saturday wash day, Sunday mornings were about my mother’s ritual.

Always I was quite happy to lay there and let ritual unfold.

The coffee grinder was the first sign that my mother was up and about. Now, you have to know this noise was reserved for only Sunday morning coffee or when my parents entertained. Instant coffee was the order of the day through the week, but my mother (as with her mother) was a great believer that coffee made from freshly-ground beans was Sunday worthy.

Soon the kettle whistle would blow and then, ever so gently, the smell of brewed coffee would waft from the kitchen, down the hallway, to my room. The first part of the ritual was complete.

I would next hear the sound of the mixer scrapping the sides of the brown plastic bowl, the one with a chip near the pouring spout. On Sundays, my mother would make something special for breakfast like blueberry-banana pancakes, raisin scones or zucchini muffins. If she was up especially very early, she’d bake Finnish cardamom bread to be served with her homemade strawberry jam. The sound of the oven door closing signalled that the second part of the ritual was done. By this time, my growling stomach was telling me it would soon be time to get up.

The opening and closing of cupboard doors, rattling of dishes and cutlery, combined with the smell of baking, completed the ritual. It would now only be a matter of minutes before my mother, sitting on the edge of my bed, would be tousling my hair and telling me it was “time to start the day”.

We all have certain sounds, scents, sights, or sayings that evoke memories. Some memories bring on a smile, laughter, or just that plain old feeling of happiness. Others make us tear-up, bring on grief, anger or frustration. This Mother’s Day will be the seventh one where my father, sister and I will place Freesias on my mother’s grave. We will each be lost for a few moments in our private thoughts of remembrance; her kindness to strangers; her loyalty to friends; her pride in her profession; her joy of picking raspberries and, above all, her utter devotion to family.

My mother’s Sunday morning ritual. Even now, in my dreams, I hear the coffee grinder, smell freshly-brewed coffee, and feel her hand on my head.

Sunday sounds and scents, a perfect reminder of my mother’s love; predictable and comforting.

Abena Buahene is a daughter, mother, sister, and street photographer who lives and loves in Toronto. She enjoys baking and still treats her father to many of her mother’s favourite recipes.

by Kayla Harrison

Google defines the act of “mothering” as, “bringing up with care and affection” or “giving birth to.”

Though I am not a mother to children, I am still a mother.

I am a mother to my ideas, to the words I write down on a page, to my stories. I am a mother to my kindness, making sure it’s birthed in every conversation. I am a mother to my body, giving it all that it needs to survive.


I am a mother to my soul, nurturing it with good music and sunshine.

Like my own mother, I have a heart that beats with passion, a heart that knows it beats not for me, but for others. I give what I have to those that don’t.

I am a mother to those closest to me, making sure they know they are loved.


I am a mother to those I don’t know, those I see on the streets with no home.


I am a mother to those struggling to find hope, those that cry out wondering if anyone hears them. I am a mother to those begging for something to make them feel again.

Like my own mother, I just want everyone to be happy.


I want everyone to know someone cares.


I want everyone to see they’re more than their past and their mistakes.

Being a mother is more than having children.


It’s feeling — maybe a little too much some days.


It’s caring for something or someone with all that you have.


It’s putting time and effort into making a work of art — a masterpiece. It’s loving, with every ounce of being.

I care and I feel and I love. I create and I mold.
 I hug and I hold tight.
And though I am not a mother to children, I am still a mother.

2018 Kayla Harrison

Kayla Harrison is a Writing Arts graduate student at Rowan University, editor at The Urban Howl, and freelance writer for Business News Daily. Her goal in life is to find those who’ve lost their sense of wonder and guide them to rediscovering it. To Kayla, reading is a way of discovering the world, and writing a way of making sense of it all. To learn more about her and her writing, check out her blog insearchofthewritedirection.weebly.com