A few notes from the road (metaphorically), while I’m traveling back to Memphis after a wholly enjoyable trip to move my daughter into her freshman dorm.
Tag: mothers and daughters
Repeat.
(Originally published a year ago, with the title, “Flight.”) When I was little, before my sister was born, I spent weeks each summer at the beach with my mother, building castles, looking for sand dollars, and chasing tiny crabs in the dark as they darted in and out of holes, trying to escape the beams … Continue reading Repeat.
Restore.
When my children were little, during the age of great dependency, I sometimes, oftentimes, struggled in my job as their mother. My struggles were laid bare most visibly on weekends, holidays and vacations. Particularly at the beach. **** Once, we loaded the last bag in the car at almost noon, the first Saturday of spring … Continue reading Restore.
Something about sewing.
"Home," as Jimmy Carter wrote, in a piece for The Bitter Southerner, "is a complicated idea." I've been sewing in the mornings, sitting in my chair by the window, sipping coffee and stitching in the few quiet moments before other more immediate responsibilities take the stage, which usually isn't very long. Sewing, and this kind … Continue reading Something about sewing.
Long haul.
Think of this as a short prelude, a transition between where we've been (for the past 73 days, anyway, for anyone counting along) and where things are going next. Here’s the scene: It’s fall break, my freshman year of college. My mother has flown from Memphis to meet me in New York, where we are … Continue reading Long haul.
Flight.
Think of this as an unfinished mosaic: When I was little, before my sister was born, I spent weeks each summer at the beach with my mother, building castles, looking for sand dollars, and chasing tiny crabs in the dark as they darted in and out of holes, trying to escape the beams of our … Continue reading Flight.
Transitions.
(Why yes, this post was — once again — written on a tiny phone screen, this time while lying in a soft, comfy bed at a friend’s childhood home. Expect typos and silly word substitutions. Also, this is a long one, in three parts and using two previously published pieces. Not sure I’m going to … Continue reading Transitions.
Something about finding one’s voice.
FORTY. Huzzah! Let's do it: There's an age by which a woman is supposed to have come into her own, to know a thing or two. Who decides this magic number that marks a woman's arrival? She does, silly. In my observation, though, women don't always seize this inherent power. A friend of mine -- … Continue reading Something about finding one’s voice.
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