Mothering by Ritual

Somewhere, about mid October, when the rains have licked clean the dust-covered rocks and the maple leaves are the color of condensed sunshine, Mom will bring home the first of several great orange pumpkins and the littlest one will breathlessly insist on carving it the very next day.   After, many false starts, “Where are the pumpkin tools?” and “I

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    Responses to rain vary but the first drops on a rural home brings two main reactions. What did I forget to cover, close, or bring in and mmm, I love that smell! Every tree seems to drip wet moss and every rock is a rich hue. Cool damp air kisses the grass and your face. Every leaf is

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Outward Sign

  I have flirted with tattoos. I have imagined the dark lines binding pieces of my fantasy self onto the awkward bulges of my real flesh. I have envisioned becoming more myself by submitting to the sharp tongue of a silver needle but I have a father who wears an impossibly perfect woman’s torso as a veil over the name

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