I’m a week late posting this piece in the gem of a journal that is Microfiction Monday Magazine. The micro form transforms one’s writing heart into a fluid and raw state. For me, writing micros frees my mind from the baggage it so often carries while trying to impress. I hope you stop by Microfiction Monday. And while you’re there, check out all the marvelous micros; Edition 116 boasts beautiful pieces by David Hensen and G.J. Williams!
Thank you, Microfiction Monday, for publishing and sharing I Never Gave Her a Name; sometimes words take me back to a doll-less time in my childhood.
She’d move along in measured paces wearing sensible shoes from down the street by the park where Washington met Lafayette, and the giant oak we’d worship and play kickball beneath
Each weeknight, the umber circle on her right shin commuted from a city bus to the front door of my suburban childhood home Sometimes I’d watch the moving bullseye grow from a dark dime to a darker quarter
Grandma and her mole would always arrive on time for supper. And after working a full day at her paper factory job, she’d retire to her bedroom, watch Perry Mason, smoke Parliaments and knit something for somebody
But every July 4th, after the dinner dishes were cleared away, we’d enjoy the illuminated night sky, we’d eat red, white and blue cake, and we’d sing Happy Birthday to Grandma
An oldie but goodie🌹 (from left to right) my grandmother, my mom, my uncle
Can’t recall what was going through my head in 2016 when I created this image.
I wish I could remember.
This piece once vaguely reminded me of John Baldessari’s artwork in the 1980’s—placing bright adhesive dots on random faces in photographs.
Since last year, the mask-like shape and those sad brown eyes have taken on a life all their own.
Honored and thrilled to have my creative nonfiction piece, “Inside My Mother’s Mouth,” published in the elegant and smart, Hippocampus Magazine.
Always honored to share a glimpse into my beautiful mother’s world. I dearly miss the person she was for all those amazing decades.