A couple of weeks ago now, we went to the meeting that we had been anticipating to find out whether my mom’s IL-2 treatments worked. No change. The tumors didn’t shrink and the tumors didn’t grow. It wasn’t the best news and it wasn’t the worst news. It was just news. So. Here we are.Continue reading “Speak, Memory: Joy and Anguish”
Category Archives: life cycles
Holiday Greetings from Nine-Month-Contract Land
I’m a Donkey on the edge! Back in November, I surveyed the approach of the holidays, the onset of bowl season, the ramping up of my husband’s travel season, and the end to my four-day work-week on an 11-month contract. With all of the calm and clarity of a person anticipating the possibility of anotherContinue reading “Holiday Greetings from Nine-Month-Contract Land”
Confessions of a Tubal Ligation
It’s been a week since our newest, and last, son – Henry Delbert – arrived safely into the world via c-section. He is absolutely beautiful, perfectly content and as predictable of a baby as I’ve experienced. Ever since we became pregnant with Henry, I’ve been coming to terms with this being our last baby –Continue reading “Confessions of a Tubal Ligation”
Measuring Rings
Settle your shifting vision on the maple stumpyour son is standing on, growing outof all your ancient history. The past keeps repeatingin new rings, health you measure by breadth.You count the number of times you’ve grownout of the fire, the layers of heartwood healingover scars, new branches jutting from woundwood. Do you see the littleContinue reading “Measuring Rings”
Easter Saturdays
Easter Saturdays (tentative title because I stink at titles) Cars full of people split the swamp where my creek flows.They must not ponder, pause, stare at hollowed logs,branchless trunks and wonder about the end of winter,spring still a whisper in the trickle of cold water through the culvert. What does all this dying mean, thisContinue reading “Easter Saturdays”
Cascade Valley
Look, my daughter, the pine treedropped its seeds, and herea fragile sapling braves the forest floor.This used to be a birch treebut maybe lightning sliced it,wind heaved its heavy breath against itand now the trunk is rust.Sticks used to flirt, flaretheir skirts of springtime buds, but now we throw the broken limbsinto the rushing floodwatersContinue reading “Cascade Valley”
Sarah Marie Wells 