Archives

Ghost stories, it turns out, are only fun when they occupy the space between belief and skepticism.

At each stage of development, we say goodbye to some difficult or delightful aspect of our children and look forward, with mixed excitement and trepidation, to what comes next.

The fact that this gift was purely from my father from inception to delivery was, I knew, something special.

His face transformed to a blank mask I could no longer see behind. The boy we knew and raised by hand―suddenly gone.

“What happened?” asked the triage nurse in the emergency room, dabbing gently at my brow to keep the blood out of my eye.

The books, as my daughter said, were her childhood. How could I possibly give them away, deny her that safe corner of imagination?

I’m a mother, I whisper, my hot breath crystalizing in the air. Here for relief.

As I write this from the sofa, he sits bunched at my feet, bony knees pulled to his chest to squeeze his ever-growing frame in what little room I can provide.

On Tuesday, he told me he’d give me a thousand dollars to get up with the baby on his morning.

Sometimes, when Carli sees another mother cooing at her child, she feels badly for Tyler. While she is resigned to mothering him—at least on the surface—until she can get him back to his own mother, she certainly never coos at him.

Mother and plant ecologist, Kimmerer invites us to examine and embrace the wonders of our world through the pillars of Indigenous wisdom.