Summer Edition 2023

Screamin Mamas Screamin Mamas

The Voice of Everyday Moms

Best of the Blogs

• Julianne King

• Nicolette Hylan-King

• Debi Lewis

• Debbie Murphy

• Paula Timpson

Love Stories

• Sarah Buckley

• Marina Renee DeCicco

• Michelle Goering

• Terrianne Polk

• Alexandra Rosas

Poetry

• Lucia Haase

• Marcella Kumer

• Ruth Lee

• Jessica Roberts

• Elizabeth Smith

• Eva Tortora

Short Stories

• Carole C. Koch

• Diane DeAnda

• Ruth D’Eredita

• Gloria J. Hansen

• Darlene Pistocchi

• Sara Sarna

• Katharine Valentino

Mother Laureate

Nicolette Hylan-King

Poetry was made for mothers, scribbling stanzas in stolen moments during bath time, defenseless against sudsy splashes, or silently and by nightlight after her child succumbs to sleep.

Long works of prose demand rooms of one’s own, but rooms shared with baby dolls can be the birthplace of verse.

Her efforts to tidy will be undone like a sandcastle by the rising tide, but poems, once penned, will last forever. Her most celebrated culinary feat may be smearing peanut butter on toast, but through poetry she displays her ingenuity.

Among the many hats a mother wears, there is room for a crown of laurel.

“Mother With Child.” Painting by Robert Völcker, German, Circa 1920. † Public Domain via WikiMedia Commons.

SCREAMINMAMAS

SUMMER EDITION 2023

EDITORIAL/ADMINISTRATION

The Lifeblood of our Existence

DARLENE PISTOCCHI - Editor-In-Chief

DENISE WEATHERBY - The Listener

DEANNA WOLVERTON - Whipping Post

BLOGGERS/POETS/WRITERS

Our Social Media Mavens

JENNIFER BONN - Living Well/Mom Vlogs

RUTH LEE - Blogs/Poetry/Whimsy

PATRICIA LYNNE - Blogs/Poetry/Stories

DEBBIE MURPHY - Blogs/English/Humor

PAULA TIMPSON - Blogs/Poetic Thoughts

EVA TORTORA - Blogs/Artist &Writer

WRITERS/CONTRIBUTORS

Our Mojo & Staying Power

DIANA DEANDA - Nostalgia/Short Stories

GLORIA J HANSEN - Humor/Nostaligia

CAROLE C. KOCH - Humor/Nostalgia

MARCELLA KUMER -Poetry/Stories

SARA SARNA -Poetry/Short Stories

JANET SOBCYZK - Poetry/Short Stories

ROSELYN STEWART - Nostalgia/Poetry

KELLY SULLIVAN - Network/Short Stories

JEN WALDRON -Humor/Network/Stories

FEATURED POETS/WRITERS

Our Patient Newbies & Inspiration

Sarah Buckley ◆ Marina R DeCicco ◆

Ruth D’Eredita ◆ Michelle Goering ◆

Lucia Haase ◆ Julianne King ◆

Nicolette Hylan-King ◆ Debi Lewis ◆

Terrianne Polk ◆ Jessica Roberts ◆

Alexandra Rosas◆ Katharine Valentino ◆

PAST BLOGGERS/CONTRIBUTORS

To Whom We Are Grateful

Lisa Cummings ◆ Amy Neal ◆ Anita Stafford

CONTACT/CONNECT

We’re Here, There & Everywhere, Please Visit!

EMAIL: ScreaminMamas@gmail.com

MAIN WEBSITE: ScreaminMamas.com

BLOGS: ScreaminMamas.Blogspot.com

ScreaminMamas.Wordpress.com

DUOTROPE: Duotrope.com/ listing/29901screaminmamas

Facebook: ScreaminMamas

Twitter:@ScreaminMama

YouTube.com/c/ScreaminMama

Pinterest.com/harmonipro/ screaminmamas

Instagram.com/ScreaminMamas

Tumblr: ScreaminMama.Tumblr.com

C O N T E N T S

Page 4

Letter From The Editor - Darlene Pistocchi

Page 5 Metamorphosis of a Mother - J. Roberts - Poetry

Page 6-7 The Secret Heart of Mothers - Terrianne Polk - Baby Love

Page 8 Let’s Get Loud - Eva Tortora- Poetry

Page 9 You’re Not the Boss - Elizabeth Smith - Sass Poetry

Page 10-11 Mean Grandma - Katharine Valentino - Sassy Story

FPage 12

Journey - Lucia Haase - Poetry

Page 13-16 Grandmother - Marina R DeCicco - Loving Look at Alzheimers

Page 17 Yellow Florwer - Eva Tortora - Poetry

Page 18 Once A Year...- Debi Lewis - Best of the Blogs

Page 19-20 I Love My Husband... - Carole C Koch- “Golden” Humor

Page 21 Life Goals - Ruth Lee - Poetry

Page 22-23 Receding from Shores - Michelle Goering - Love Story

Page 24-25 If I Had Your Spirit - Eva Tortora - Centerfold Poetry

Page 26-27 The Unexpected Baptism - Diane DeAnda - Blessings 4 All

Page 28 Proverbs - NKJ - Divine Inspiration

Page 29-30 The Pictures Stopped - Alexandra Rosas- Love

Page 31 Love on a Library Shelf - Ruth Lee - A Touch of Whimsy

Page 32-33

Fractured Family Tides - Gloria Jean Hansen - Nostalgia

Page 34 Springbreak - Julianne King - Poetic Justice

Page 35 Today’s Mission - Debbie Murphy - Best of the Blogs

Page 36 Reflections - Eva Tortora - Poetry

Page 37-39

Page 40

Page 41

Page 42-43

Page 44

Page 45-46

Page 47

Whose Scrapbooks ... - Ruth D’Eredita - De-Cluttering

Miracles for Us - Marcella Kumer- Poetry

Photograph - Sara Sarna - Lesson Learned

Riding the Waves - Darlene Pistocchi - A Beachy Story

Peace - Eva Tortora - Poetry

Summer I Never Forgot- Sara Buckley - Animal Love

Dance As Butterflies- Paula Timpson - Best of the Blogs

Back Cover Paula Timpson Poetry - Paula Timpson - Divine Poetry

Disclaimer: As a grassroots group of Moms, our publication dates vary. We work around the kids, the chores, the dogs, the dishes, the laundry, the bills... but, through the grace of God, and everyone’s continued faithfulness and patience, it gets done. Very thankfully. We accept submissions throughout the year, please visit our website for what we look for: screaminmamas.com. You may submit on our website or email: screaminmamas@gmail.com. All work published remains that of the author/artist. Layout and Design remains that of ScreaminMamas. Photos & artwork courtesy contributor, clipart, Adobe Express or Public Domain.†Denotes a tag for author’s work after 100 years or fewer. No part of this may be reproduced without express permission. All rights reserved 2013-2023. COVER IMAGE “Mothers & Children” by George B. Petty, Chicago, circa 1911, Public Domain † via WikiMedia Common, J170504 U.S. Copyright Office.

Mama Ocean

Feel her magnificent presence throughout this Issue.

“At the Seaside” ~ by Edward Henry Potthast, Circa 1905. † Public Domain via WikiMedia Commons.

Letter from the Editor

Hello Fabulous Moms & Contributors!

How I miss you all! But, I am so glad to say that no matter how long I’m down, you keep sending your precious work and I am so forever grateful. Shouts to Alixx Black, Jennifer Bonn, Deanna Livingston, Patricia Lynne, Janet Sobczyk, Rose Stewart, Kelly Sullivan, and Jen Waldron, who are not in this issue but are consistently sending work and encouragements. I also extend a warm welcome to all of our many first-time contributors who have waited graciously for publication (Thank you!). I have tried to include bios and headshots of everyone in this issue which is packed with tales of motherhood in an everflowing stream of memories that tug on the heart. I think you’ll find a strong presence of Mother Nature & Mama Ocean in this issue, perfect for a summer celebration. Everyone of these stories and poems capture the very essence of the unequivocal life and love of a mother, daughter, grandmother, granddaughter. Also, a note about the artwork, without which we could not add that extra touch of magic. There are 17 pieces in this issue including three exquisite pieces from the Mother Nature Series by artist Mrinal Kanty Das. Attributes are given for each, please visit their work. Simply magnificent. Praise be to God for all things, for He is good, allowing me the resources, vision and inspiration, to share your voices, so grab a cup of tea or coffee, sit back and let’s dive in!

Lots of Love, Darlene

J. Roberts is a devoted wife and mother currently living in Georgia, USA, having spent the past 5 years in the UK. Born and raised in Florida, she has been an Esthetician for 12 years, allowing her to travel through the US and Europe to work, live, and dream. Her lifelong love of poetry, reading, and writing is the foundation for her passion, and her lived experiences form the fabric woven into her writing.

Lucia Haase writes poetry as a direct result of a spiritual experience that happened 20 years ago. Much of her work revolves around nature and human emotion, others spiritual. She has been accepted by The Raven’s Perch, Time of Singing, Nostalgia Press and The Bible Advocate and was recently included in a poetry anthology, Symphonies of the Wild Hearted available on amazon. Lucia lives in Illinois with her husband and Cenny, her pomeranian. She has 2 grown children and 2 granddaughters.

This is Charlotte, daughter of Nicolette Hylan-King, who lives in Port Matilda, Pennsylvania, with her husband, Kyle, their daughter Charlotte, and their dog, Arya. Nicolette works as a marketing communications specialist for Penn State University, where she earned a masters degree in English. She also holds bachelor of arts degrees in English and Women's Studies from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

Elizabeth Smith was born in Washington DC, raised on a barrier island in NJ, and spent most of her adult life in Ohio. A lawyer by training, writer by vocation and multi-tasker by necessity, she & her husband, John, raised 3 spirited children in Cincinnati, and now live in Colorado. Being a mother continues to be her lifelong vocation-nothing has brought her more joy, and sorrow, than this deeply spiritual commitment.

Paula Timpson Eva Tortora

Marcella Kumer Ruth Lee

Debbie Murphy

Julianne King Carole C Koch

Do you have something you would like to share with us? We love anything & everything Moms - memories, nostalgia, photos, revelations, rants, recipes, sons, daughters, grandmoms, family, pets, travel, humor, fun stuff to do. We accept submissions throughout the years at ScreaminMamas.com or screaminmamas@gmail.com.

Mother

It’s late nights

It’s late nights

And early mornings

It’s endless questions

It’s guilt

It’s google

It’s fear

It’s joy

It’s firsts

First smile

First laugh

First scraped knee

First failure

It’s crying together

It’s falling asleep to the sound of their breath

It’s messy

It’s glorious

It’s frightening

It’s the loss of one self

But the gaining of another

It’s a better person

Who rises from the ashes of uncertainty

And flies into the realm of the impossible

She soars in warmth

And patience she never had before

Her touch is softer

Her heart is fuller

And even in the struggle

She loves unconditionally

For the first time

Through it all She becomes A Mother.

Metamorphosis of a J. Roberts

“Mother & Child.” Painting by Rudolph Epp, German, 1834-1910. † Public Domain via WikiMedia Commons.

The Secret Heart of Mothers The Secret Heart of Mothers

Written in memory of that very first smile!

Terrianne Polk

When I was pregnant with my first child, I prepared myself well. I read the books and absorbed the plentiful advice that seasoned moms were eager to dispense. By the time my due date arrived, I knew that I’d soon have permanent bags under my eyes from lack of sleep, that my house would never be clean again, and that I’d be lucky to sneak a shower in at the end of the day. I was ready for it all!

One brisk December morning after a labor and delivery that was very much like the books said it would be, I gave birth to a perfect baby boy. In the days and weeks that followed, the miracles of motherhood unfolded, and I was transformed. I felt as if life’s best-kept secret was slowly revealing itself to me.

In the hospital the day after he was born, a

nurse took my baby from my arms for the routine prodding and poking that hospitals must do. As I waited for her to return I felt anxious…unsettled, but unsure why. It wasn’t until he was placed back into my protective embrace that the uneasy feeling dissolved into contentment. There marked one of the first milestones on my brand new journey into motherhood: The realization that I would never be the same. From then on, I understood that the new life that came from my body was truly an extension

eyes, the rosy cheeks, the bow-tie lips…” I could never imagine that a tiny baby would flood my senses with such wonder and such hope. I had no idea that becoming a mother would invoke pride so strong I’d feel like shouting “LOOK AT MY AMAZING CHILD! HE’S MINE”!

I guess it was about 3 months after my baby’s birth when it suddenly hit me: Nobody had told me that motherhood was magical. I didn’t know it would enlighten me, motivate me—complete me. I

of me—no longer physically connected to me—but connected permanently to my soul. I had no idea an emotion so profound existed before.

Those first few days and weeks seemed to flow together, and one day about a month after his birth I propped my baby close and began chattering in that baby-speak that was already feeling like second nature to me. He looked up, and I saw a sparkle in his eyes I’d never seen before. Then, for the first time, he smiled at me—a wide open grin—his chubby round face transformed by this new and wonderful expression. My heart jumped so high it nearly took my breath away! Nobody ever told me that the first smile would be so extraordinary that the moment would be imprinted in my mind forever—unforgettable.

The time flew, and soon I was taking my baby for walks in his stroller. “Oh wow, he’s beautiful”! A woman commented one day, looking at my son. I gave her the socially appropriate humble thanks, but in my mind I was thinking “I know right?! Isn’t he just the most beautiful baby EVER?! The big brown

was prepared for the diapers, the midnight feedings and the teething. But the wonder? I was blindsided. I had no idea such pure and peaceful sentiments existed within me. Nobody told me---or had they?

When I was pregnant, I got so much advice and heard countless stories. But now I’m a mother myself. And now I’m in on the Secret Heart of Mothers.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Terrianne Polk is mom of two and a lifelong resident of Long Island, New York. In addition to freelance writing, she enjoys analyzing true crime cases, metal detecting, and has an enduring passion for animals, especially birds”.

“

I had no idea that becoming a mother would invoke pride so strong I’d feel like shouting “LOOK AT MY AMAZING CHILD! HE’S MINE”!

Let’s get loud!

We are wonderful people, strong, talented and brave! Love is here, there, everywhere, and very real. We can choose to be positive. In any moment, we can choose love. Let’s live a positive life and prosper. Love means luck and prosperity. Love yourself! Love one another. Be brave, talented and bold! I believe in you.

Eva Tortora- artist and published writer in NYC

Photo of Raquel Harmoni Pistocchi

you’re not the boss of me

Elizabeth Smith

A little fish she is, but she is no swimmer in schools. Casting about I must go for her… and the line goes taut as soon as it’s out

‘the shoes, the shoes’ Oh, how she detests confinement! A very ocean of anathema stands between me and her bi-corporal nature now.

She will not be reeled in without a fight.

Positively piscine she gets, her very body becomes a remonstrance.

Ah, but the fisherman has an unfair advantage in the rod…

sand-sifted-pebble pummeled—unable to speak for the hook in her mouth—she will be dragged onto the beach of obedience writhing but with each wave of resistance coming closer in hand until she is left flopping on the shore at my feet.

And as the shoes are applied, she knows she is being sandbagged. But she is exhausted. The jactitations will cease. She will submit to her second nature.

Except for that eye.

Mean Grandma

My granddaughter Shayna lived with me the year she was in first grade. I worked, so Shayna went to after-school care along with many of the kids in her class. At the after-school playground, kids would be playing ball, skipping rope, putting puzzles together or just milling around. As end-ofwork-day frazzled parents would arrive, kids would run to the playground gate, and there would be big hugs.

Shayna was different.

For the first three weeks of her after-school care, Shayna pretended not to notice my arrival at the playground gate. She was almost invariably at the far end of the playground, so I had to shout for her. She again pretended not to hear me, so I had to trudge after her through the grass in my high heeled office shoes. When I reached her, I said, “Hi sweetie, time to go home” in the cheeriest voice I could manage. She still refused to acknowledge my presence, often responding only when a playground friend poked her and said, “Shayna, your grandma's here.” At which point, she turned to me and snarled, “Grandma, you're mean!”

I then had to haul her to the car.

During the ride home, Shayna chattered at me just as though she was one of those oth-

Katharine Valentino

“My Grandmother” by Kete Ephraim Marcus (1933, Sculptor/Painter), CC BY-SA

3.0

SASSY

er, nice, kids, and I responded just as though she were. My theory was that treating this child with kindness would eventually encourage her to respond in kind.

It was a theory that would remain theoretical, however. One day, I could no longer maintain any semblance of cheerfulness. In the car, Shayna chattered away. I was silent. Shayna chattered on. I was still silent. By the time we reached home

cult to wake up as to pick up from daycare. She was difficult, period.

I said pointedly, “Shayna.” She looked up, a little startled. I asked, “What would you like this morning? Would you like mean grandma or nice grandma?”

There was a pause. “Nice … Grandma?”

I asked, “And how would you get Nice Grandma?”

and she asked as usual about dinner, we both knew something was about to happen.

Now, I swear I didn’t plan this. I simply opened my mouth, and what came out was “You don’t get any dinner.”

“What?” she asked incredulously.

I went with it: “You don’t get any dinner.” I pointed at the bedroom door. “Get to bed. Now!”

“Waaah!” wailed poor Shayna. She ran into the bedroom and threw herself on the bed.

During the next half hour, wailing subsided to a moan now and then, with sniffles. I got some raspberry yogurt—wrong flavor for Shayna—and a banana—she hated bananas— placed them along with a glass of water on a tray, marched into the bedroom and slammed the tray down on the nightstand. I said in my new mean voice, “There. There’s your dinner” and marched out again.

That was that for the evening.

Next morning, I went into the bedroom and waked Shayna up in a noncommittal kind of way. She started in with her usual “I don’t wanna get up leave me alone!”—oh yes, she was as diffi-

Another pause. Then: “Be nice?” she squeaked.

I said, “You got it, kid.”

For the rest of the year when I arrived at the playground after work, Shayna ran to the gate to meet me, and we would give each other big hugs.◆◆◆

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katharine Valentino, mother and grandmother, worked for 30 years at menial jobs before acquiring a BA degree in journalism. For the next 20 years, she worked at slightly more interesting jobs and occasionally was even allowed to write some technical thing or other. She retired in 2018 and now takes long walks with her canine companion, Silly Lilly; edits poetry and prose and builds websites for people who become friends; and works on her own life stories, quite a number of which are about her grandchildren. Her website is at: settingForth.pub. She also writes on Medium at: medium.com/@katharinevalentino.

Now, I swear I didn’t plan this. I simply opened my mouth, and what came out was, “You don’t get any dinner.” “What?” she asked incredulously. I went with it: “You don’t get any dinner.” I pointed at the bedroom door. “Get to bed. Now!”

Journey Journey

‘Carry on,’ says the wood, though the road is long; ‘Carry on’ as you should. Find your victory song.

‘Carry on,’ says the wood, though the road is long; ‘Carry on’ as you should. Find your victory song.

There is warmth up ahead, certain Spring on the brow just where others have tread, though the air is cold now.

There is warmth up ahead, certain Spring on the brow just where others have tread, though the air is cold now.

Let your stead be a tree

Let your stead be a tree

rooting strength with each dawn

rooting strength with each dawn

‘neath the world’s canopy-

‘neath the world’s canopysays the wood, ‘Carry on.’

Lucia HaasE Lucia HaasE

“ Summer” Painting by Alphonse Mucha, 1896.,Czech Painter, Public Domain † , featured at Art Renewal Center, Port Reding, NJ

An honest look at Alzheimer’s Disease through the eyes of a loving granddaughter..

Grandmother

Grandmother says stand up straight. She says roll your shoulders back and suck in your stomach. Place a yard stick between your arms and shoulders and rock side to side; your posture will improve. “Why must you put your hair back?” She says. She wants to see it as big and curly as it is. She says your pretty face is made too prominent and your hair frames your

Marina Renee

DeCicco

“

She says she tries the best she can. And she does try. But her eyes say she is tired. Exhausted from long days of work and being a mother instead of a grandmother.”

Photo of Grandmother at a party in Bronx, New York, 1962.

face just right. When you dye it, she says nothing. Her silence means she does not like it but that she respects your decision. As a teenager you don’t see this so you roll your eyes and assume she hates everything you do.

Grandmother says “I can’t have a conversation with you”. She says your rolling eyes, crossed arms, and objections are too much for her to handle and she just wants to help you. She thinks you don’t care about or understand her advice. She says you think you know everything and even though you know you don’t, you argue back.

Grandmother says she should have taken custody of you and now it’s too late. Your mother would have wanted it that way, but she didn’t think the argument with your father was worth it. She says she tries the best she can. And she does try. But her

she would sing bushel and a peck before she put you in your mothers old room for the night.

She asks if you remember when you and your brother would beg to play clue with her because you still hadn’t won and you needed to try again. If you remember the days when she looked younger and less tired. When she worked for a man who gave her extra money each month simply because he felt like it. When good hearts seemed the most prominent thing in your life and you could ignore the bad ones.

When you become an adult she asks if you could try to help her. If you could just wash the dishes and make dinner, she could rest after her 9 hour day. You agree because you see the wrinkles forming from a frown and the despair weighs her body down to the point of shrinking height. Her heels become the equivalent of your flats and you begin to feel tall, although your 5 foot height says otherwise. She can no longer kiss you on the head, as she did when you were 6 years old.

Grandmother says, “come cuddle with me. Let’s watch a movie. My Cousin Vinny is on and that always makes me laugh.” Her laugh sounds practiced; years of pretending to smile and overexaggerated chuckles. Her skin has thinned, so when you lay next to her you’re careful not to scratch or bump. She is always cold, so you get under the blanket to make her feel like she’s not the only one. As you’ve grown older, she seems more fragile so you’re gentle to touch.

eyes say she is tired. Exhausted from long days of work and being a mother instead of a grandmother. She speaks of bank accounts and bills, college funds, and savings accounts. You say you know only what was taught to you when you were 8 years old; writing checks for your mother because she couldn’t lift her hand off the table.

She asks if you remember when you were five years old and you had slumber parties on nights your parents were out. Nights when you would drink hot chocolate and watch the Little Mermaid and Sleeping Beauty until sleep crept over the both of you and the couch became your bed. Nights when

Grandmother says, “I like that boy. He’s very sweet.” Each time the boy enters the room, she kisses him on the cheek and stands on her tippy toes to hug him. She pats his back and tells him to sit. She asks if he wants a drink or something to eat and he says he is okay even though you can hear his stomach rumbling from next to you. Later, after he’s left, she tells you she approves. She gives you advice over time and says relationships are not easy. She says you have to work at life. Life won’t give you what you want, and if this is something you want, you have to try for it. For the rest of your life you will hear her in your ear. Telling you about

the sirens she heard as a child after world war 2 had ended. Telling you about the time your grandfather threw your mother in the pool to teach her to swim. Telling you about her first boyfriend, her first drink, your mothers’ too. She tells you these things to warn you, but also to tell you to live.

Sometimes Grandmother forgets where she put her glasses, her keys. She puts on the tea kettle, but never makes her tea. She must be exhausted from work. 73 should be a time for fun. Instead she’s still driving your sister around and dealing with your father’s obnoxious karaoke in the backyard. You live in New York now though, so it’s not your problem.

Your sister says Grandmother forgot how to turn off her blinker the other day. Seems odd for a woman whose been driving for the last 50 years. Maybe it was just a bad day.

isn’t a good idea. She calls you by your mother’s name much more often now. Especially when she sleeps. She mostly sleeps.

Grandmother has Alzheimer’s now. She is quicker to forget and her fiery rage has all but died down. She is angrier and more confused. She isn’t angry with you, though. Just angry at the situation. She denies any diagnoses and often refuses to take her medication. She insists she can survive without your help, even though you watch as she struggles to put on her clothes and forgets to shower or brush her teeth.

Grandmother decided last minute to retire. Strange. But she really is tired and she needs the break. Her exhaustion has been making her forget more and more and her boss hired an extra secretary months ago. They knew this was coming.

The pandemic hit hard, so you decided to go home. You private tutor a preschooler and Grandmother stays home to avoid COVID. She says she’s bored and needs to go back to work, but we all know that

Her eating habits have become that of a toddler. Cold cuts and toast are considered meals and actual meals are never enough. Snacks are her favorite thing and she will never reject that pint of Cherry Garcia. Hot tea is her only drink, except for the occasion when she pours some of your sister’s Dr. Pepper in her cup and winces from the taste you already know she doesn’t like. Salt and carbs have become her vices and her cholesterol proves it.

Her doctors tell you she isn’t taking care of herself like she should and she needs to be reminded. Although you know this, it is incredibly painful to remind her that her last shower was a week and a half ago, because you know there’s the possibility her anger will create fireworks. Absolute danger if not handled correctly.

Grandmother won’t let you take care of her, insists she can still drive, says she’ll invite a boy over when you’re not home if she wants to, and eats chocolate like it’s her cure. “Where are you taking that?” she screams as you attempt to take out the trash without her noticing. She has attachments to things and

“

Grandmother has Alzheimer’s now.She is quicker to forget and her fiery rage has all but died down. She is angrier and more confused. She isn’t angry with you, though. Just angry at the situation.”

thinks you’re getting rid of them without her permission.

Grandmother thinks you need her permission. She thinks you are still a teenager most days, completely dependent on her driving you everywhere and picking you up at the first S.O.S. text. She doesn’t remember much about your four years in college, the boy you used to date, or the year you lived in New York. She doesn’t remember the job you havethough she knows you have one- or the friends you’ve made through them. She doesn’t know you even when your name graces her lips for what might be the last time.

Grandmother still asks you to watch that movie every now and then, though she doesn’t remember she’s seen it before. Her memory fades as soon as it is over, but you watch it anyways; always careful when you get under the blanket not to bump or scratch. Hot tea on the bedside, chocolate in hand. You’ll always watch it over again. As many times as she asks.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marina Renee DeCicco is published in several literary magazines for both her prose and poetry works. Her most recent work, seen here, was written in 2018 and revised for publication in 2023. She currently works as an English and Critical Thinking teacher for Broward County Public Schools and as a House Manager at Florida Atlantic University’s Studio One Theatre. She often spends her time in photography or writing. Marina is very excited to be able to publish once again.

Didyouknowthat1in3seniorsdieswithAlzheimer's oranotherdementia,killingmorethanbreastcancer and prostate cancer combined? The lifetime risk for Alzheimer’satage45is1in5forwomenand1in10for men. Marina and her Grandmother are not alone. So manyofourlovedonesaresusceptible,maybeevenus oneday,yetwecanstillgetthroughitwiththekindof graceandloveMarinashareswithherGrandmother. It won’t be easy, but it can be done. If this speaks to you, please be sure to visit alz.org. We are happy to shedalightonthis.

Grandmother holding Marina at the hospital when she was born.

Grandmother holding Marina at the Miami Zoo, 1997. ⇦ ⇦

Yellow Flower

Today

I'm a yellow flower. Sitting pretty in the sun. Angry at the world. Choking on silence. Withering. Sailing. Soaring. Up up and away. Becoming young.

Eva Tortora

“Ophelia” 1894, by John William Waterhouse, English Painter 1849-1917Public Domain via WikiMedia Commons

Once a year, even if i dOn’t need tO.

No amount of bubbles in the ears as my head sinks beneath, will drown out the desperate

That’s me in the bath. Shocking, says you. A woman, who hates the bath? You must be havin’ a laugh. But who has time for a long soak? There’s only so much you can do lying there in a puddle of warm bubbles. I can’t get my list of jobs done. I can’t get a novel written. I’d soak for Britain if I could do that at the same time.

“No electronics in the bath, Debra.” That’s my husband. He thinks I’m joking about not liking a long soak. But it’s the feeling in my hands and feet when they go wrinkly I can’t stand. Well maybe I’d try if our bath was a bit more grand. And anyway, relaxing in the tub gets rid of the grime and the grub but I still get knocks on the door.

“Mummy?” And no one says, “Leave your mother alone”. I am expected to just ignore the pleas of my child as the little one says “Mummy?” in her angelic voice and my elder one says “Mummy?” in her teenage baritone, “Have you seen my phone?”

No amount of bubbles in the ears as my head sinks beneath, will drown out the desperate need in me to answer and not say “Leave me in peace”.

And so it’s showers for me, if you must know, even though my training tells me, when you’re stressed a bath is actually the way to go. ◆ ◆ ◆

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debi Lewis was born in Canada but now makes her home in Scarborough, England. Debi is married with two children. She pays the bills by working for a local mental health charity. She has also been published by Ink, Sweat and Tears, The Mindful Word, and Oddball Magazine. Debi has been running free poetry workshops and reading groups to make poetry more accessible to her local community. Debi has recently joined an aerobics dance class to boost her mood and spends most of the class laughing at her lack of coordination. You can find more on her website: debilewiswriter.wordpress.com. ◆

need in me to answer and not say, “Leave me in peace!”

I love my husband, but…

Carole Christman Koch

Since moving to Allentown, I had wanted a new matching desk and bookcase for my study. We purchased one at a local office supply store. The salesman told us, “There is a nominal fee if you’d want us to put it together for you.” Harry said, “Carole, we can do this together.”

I love togetherness, so I agreed.

Once home, we decided to put the bookcase together first. Nearly finished, we noted two flaws. Harry suggested taking it apart and starting over. I told him, “I’m not starting over. I will accept the 2 flaws.” He agreed.

A few days later, we tackled the desk. All went smoothly, except for the file folder drawer. It just didn’t fit evenly. After several tries to fix it, Harry asked, “Put your head in the open space to see if you can see what’s wrong, while I hold the flashlight.”

Having been stuck in a clothes hamper in my late 30s, as the assistant to my sister, Anita’s magic show, I told him, “I no longer do clothes hampers and starting today, I no longer do file folder drawers. I will accept the desk with this flaw.” He agreed.

After living with this fiasco, we were living “happily ever after” for a few years, when I decided my back bothered me, while using the old office chair. Again, we go to the store for a new chair when I hear Harry tell the salesman, “Carole and I can put it together. Chairs are easier to do then a bookcase and desk.” I agreed.

That same afternoon found us putting the chair together on the kitchen table. First, it was pushing the casters on a 4-prong leg thing-ama-jig (I don’t know chair lingo yet). That was the easy part.

Next we had to attach the back to the seat

“ It certainly is true, I love my husband, but it’s also true we are capable-in our 70s-of doing a lot of things together, but not furniture! ”

with the bolts. We struggled eyeing the bolt hole with the back and the seat. I suggested moving to the living room floor.

Once on the living room floor, I took the floor position as I was better at getting up. Harry took the leaning over position. We finally got the bolts in

the way.”

As I was laying on the floor, I could see the cylinder was blocked by an adjustment device, but it did have a teeny dime-sized hole that I was to guide the piston in. Trying not to get any of my extremities crushed, I just could not get the

one that was obscured from my sight on the floor. I looked at Harry and stated, “I was guiding the large cylinder with a teeny dime hole into the piston on the floor. I never saw the smaller cylinder!”

We then turned it right side up and placed it in the right

the holes under terrible lighting conditions. I had taken the large lamp out of the living room area and placed our Christmas tree on the table. The other smaller lamp was on an automatic switch, so we couldn’t see that well, even in daylight the flashlight was of no use. At this time, we were still in an exalted state of love.

From there we took the coaster leg bottom and set it in my study. We both carried the attached seat and back, due to its heaviness to the study to finish the project. Now all we had to do was set the heavy seat and back into the coaster legs. Harry held the heavy part and told me, “Lay on the floor and guide the cylinder into the piston on the floor. Keep your head and hands out of

cylinder with the tiny hole onto the piston. As we struggled and struggled, I noted we were not as “close” as we were when we started the project.

Eventually the chair slipped and hit my left hand pulling off skin near the fingernail. At this point, I was very agitated, as I ran to the bathroom with my bleeding finger. After my husband helped bandage my finger, he asked, “Do you feel ok to finish? We’ll turn the chair around and try to see why we couldn’t get it in the hole.” I muttered something unintelligible and headed to my study.

We turned the chair upside down, when to my amazement I could see there was a smaller cylinder near the large

hole. From there we headed to the kitchen. He helped me get dinner on the table. We ate in silence. Afterwards, he offered to help do the dishes. I declined the offer. He lingered and asked, “How long are you going to stay mad?”

I answered , “Maybe tomorrow.”

Next day, before we ate breakfast, I said, “Let’s shake hands and agree we are never again going to put furniture together.” He agreed. I held out my left hand with the bandaged finger, so he’d never forget our pact.

I still love my husband, but …

“Harry held the heavy part and told me, ‘Lay on the floor and guide the cylinder into the piston on the floor. Keep your head and hands out of the way.’

As I was laying on the floor . . .”

Life Goals

I would like to learn from the trees to let go leaf by leaf and be able to bear it

I would like to learn from the trees to let go leaf by leaf and be able to bear it

I would like to learn from the seas to go with the flow and with the shore share it

I would like to learn from the seas to go with the flow and with the shore share it

I would like to learn from the bees to seek out the sweet and dance to declare it

I would like to learn from the bees to seek out the sweet and dance to declare it

Ruth Lee

Receding from Shore

Michelle Goering

I imagine him choosing his window seat on the plane that is bringing him home, a perceptive and curious soul wrapped in his pale freckled skin, the fullness of his upper lip, the crinkles next to his blue eyes. The thin fingers of his hand rest on a page of a novel in his lap as they take off. Now he’s in a crowded room in the sky, six miles up, hurtling in a slow

some ways I feel exactly now as I did when I’d watch him run toward me when he was three—my heart, I’d think. That boy is my heart. May our lives be filled with more of these suspended moments of appreciation, when we are drawing together, undistracted by the mundane and our worries, intent on the connection, committed to the direction.

flows like the silver river of the Milky Way above our heads, on its powerful way, a flow we cannot stop or slow.

That same week, our favorite neighbors packed up to move and pulled away for the final time with their four little girls. They’re not going far, and I can visit them at their new place. But Laurie and I won’t greet each other daily as we walk out of our houses. We won’t borrow from each other, or get each other’s mail when we’re away, or share our surplus lemons and tomatoes, or stand in the street in the sunshine and catch up about our kids and our plans. Her daughters won’t knock on my door with a plate of cookies or a flier about their lost turtle. I’ll have to drive to their new home, and when I arrive at the door I’ll be more like a guest, not a nextdoor neighbor. Proximity matters.

I guess I’m afraid that when Gabe comes back, one of these times, it will be like that. He’ll be more like a guest, not a traveler returning home. When he arrives home this summer from his travels, he will have been at his boyhood home for about 10 of the preceding 300 days.

How long will he have to be somewhere else before that becomes his home instead? This winter visit he was happy to see us, secure and relieved to return, but we didn’t

have as much to say to each other. I felt there was so much day-today living to catch up on that we couldn’t even start it. I think we were all happy to be in the same space and to love each other. But our family patterns have morphed into some new design, closing the space where Gabe used to fit.

This moment reminds me of the pause in every deep breath, when the air has come into my body but not yet reversed to go out again. Or the wave that is spread like a blanket on the shore, before it is pulled back and away and out to sea again. Or even the larger shift of the tides, when the subsequent waves come in, but not quite as far. They slowly ebb away. Gabe becoming an adult with his own life is like that—there’s a pause, then a tide shifting, a pattern changing. When my sons were young, they were like the waves coming to shore when the tide is coming in and hugging the shoreline: they were in my lap, on top of each other, sharing my air, sometimes smothering me, then venturing out a bit before returning to my arms.

But at some point, the pull changed

direction and now comes from the vast world. A receding tide, Gabe still flows in, but he doesn’t come as far ashore. He doesn’t completely melt into these sands. I’m the sunny, stationary beach, no longer saturated and swept by his presence. I kiss him goodbye in airports and watch his straight and supple back as he moves out from me, a man. And each time he’s more distant, more preoccupied with his fuller life out in the world, as he must be—each time more eager to return to the sea.

Michelle Goering is happiest when she’s writing—or singing and playing guitar. She’s an introverted chatterbox with a background in publishing, married and the mother of twin college-age sons. A San Diego transplant from a Kansas farm, she’s published in Her View from Home, Sasee, and Christian Science Monitor. ◆

When my sons were young, they were like the waves coming to shore when the tide is coming in and hugging the shoreline: they were in my lap, on top of each other, sharing my air, sometimes smothering me, then venturing out a bit before returning to my arms.

If I Had Your Spirit If I Had Your Spirit

If I had your spirit, I would be so strong I would be in love with the world.

If I had your spirit, I would climb the sky and stop in between for a hot chocolate.

If I had your spirit, I would remember forgetting you, pale with diamonds and rust.

If I had your spirit, I would say hello instead of goodbye to my demons, chasing the rain.

If I had your spirit, I would remember that I have to look normal, as I lose them,

and as I lose you by Thursday of next week you can rip your jeans and need a sewing class or two.

If I had your spirit, I would climb inside your heart and sing across universes, across ladders, across melancholy Thursdays that bleed or melt in the rain.

The Unexpected Baptism

When my oldest son was born, I couldn't bring myself to baptize him, despite the urgings of my Catholic mother and grandmother. Looking at my beautiful, sweet-faced son, I couldn't imagine that he harbored a sin so terrible that an elaborate ritual was needed to rid him of it. I could not believe that he had been tarnished with Original Sin as his heritage from Adam and Eve. My parents and grandmother did not press me, then, or when

my second son was born and the issue was not raised again.

One Easter when my boys were about 10 and 5 years old, our family picked up Grama for the hour ride to my sister's house for a large family gathering. Because we had to leave early for the long ride, Grama had not been able to go to Easter Sunday Mass. Knowing she would have liked to have gone to church that day, I suggested that I drive her

† Diane de Anda †

to the local church along with my children, so she would see the Easter altar and offer some prayers. The meal would not be ready for another hour, so this seemed like a workable plan. When the cousins heard about our little trip, they all insisted upon going too—their great grandmother was everyone's favorite and it sounded like a better adventure than standing around waiting for the food to be ready. Luckily, my car was a huge Suburban that easily accommodated everyone.

sons, saying the traditional words: “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” When she was done, all the other great grandchildren demanded that she baptize them too, including two who had been baptized in the Church already, and others whose parents had left the Catholic Church years before. I don't know whether Grama thought she was saving all their souls, but she certainly felt that we were all blessed that day.

We all marched down to the holy water font at the back of the church and my grandmother dripped water on the foreheads of my two sons, saying the traditional words: “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” When she was done, all the other great grandchildren demanded that she baptize them too...”

As we were all kneeling at one of the pews in silent prayer, I looked at my grandmother with her great grandchildren all around her and suddenly thought of a compromise that would give this Easter special meaning for her.

“Grama,' I said. “I didn't want the priest to baptize my children to get rid of sins, but I would be happy to have you baptize them as a blessing.”

The look on her face was almost beatific. She had never been a strict, dogmatic Catholic, so this plan did not seem at odds with her beliefs.

We all marched down to the holy water font at the back of the church and my grandmother dripped water on the foreheads of my two

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Aside from being a most loyal ScreaminMama, Diane de Anda is a professor emerita of social welfare at UCLA and a community voice on violence prevention and stress management among adolescents. She is the author of 17 children’s books, including the awarding-winning titles Mango Moon and The Day Abuelo Got Lost, and has edited four books on multicultural social work. Her work focuses on empowering Latino youth. She lives in Playa del Rey, California, and we are blessed to share her voice. Please visit her website at: deandabookshop.com/◆

Graphic: “Happy Children Splashing Water,” Sasin Tipchai, 2016, Creative Commons, Universal Public Domain Dedication

Strength and honor are her clothing; She shall rejoice in time to come.

The Pictures Stopped When She Was Gone

There are pictures of me with my children, an unusual thing since it is mothers who take the pictures of their children and are seldom seen in the frame. The only reason I have a record of me learning how to mother these three babies of mine is because my mother was there to photograph it.

she talking about, I would think to myself. There will be hundreds of photos after all, right? But I didn’t want to argue, and so I would allow her, my

She would push me into the frame, “Get in, get in, or you will never see yourself with them!” What is she talking about, I would think to myself. There will be hundreds of photos after all, right?

She would push me into the frame, “Get in, get in, or you will never see yourself with them!” What is

small Colombian mother with her 110 instamatic camera, shouting posing directions to me in her

Alexandra Rosas

Photo of Raquel Harmoni Pistocchi

accented English, to click away. No less than three, in case I had my eyes closed, or was looking away, or didn’t like one of them. She would keep clicking until she felt satisfied.

I never knew what she was doing, but she did. She was freezing time. She knew, after being a mother to six herself, how fleeting our days are with our children. The truth is there, but when you’re in the thick of it, you don’t believe it. I was a mother to three and I was drowning in “these precious years.” I couldn’t catch sight of shore.

But my mother knew, and she knew that one day, I would look at these photos of me, beaming while holding my baby up to the camera, me with a yet unlined face, and I would relive that time of uncertainty mixed with joy.

My mother has been gone ten years now. I miss her. I look at pictures of me with my babies from then, the time of “the days are long but the years are short.” I am a mother, with three young children, and I see me smiling, holding all three of them as we start our new lives together. I see this, because I

have these photos, because of her.

I don’t think I can make that point enough, any pictures I have of me with my children when they were fresh, so young, with me in the same beaming way, are because of my mother.

I miss her now, her voice, especially as it grew thinner toward the end of her hospice care, but there was a rhythm to it when she said my name, that even writing about it brings a lump in my throat.

I miss her voice, I miss the way she knew me longer than anyone, I miss how she loved my children as much as I did and to her, they were the most beautiful beings she had ever seen.

I took this photo here, where she is calling out to my son. My mother, just three weeks before she passed away. “Mama,” I waved to her, “get in closer to Auggie.” But she kept waving back to me instead. “Mi’ja, my daughter,” she said, “take a picture, so one day we have it.”

I took three, in case there was one she didn’t like. The thing is, each one turned out just as beautiful as the first.

Love on the Library Shelf

Love on the Library Shelf

Send Down the Rain

Send Down the Rain

The Thunder and Rain

The Thunder and Rain

Water from My Heart

Water from My Heart

To Where the River Ends

To Where the River Ends

Down to Where My Love Lives

Down to Where My Love Lives

The Mountain Between Us

The Mountain Between Us

When Crickets Cry

When Crickets Cry

Wrapped in Rain

Wrapped in Rain

i will hum along Ruth Lee

i will hum along

Ruth Lee

FRACTURED FAMILY TIDES

Strictly fiction!

My favorite wedding picture—my favorite husband, actually. It’s been years since this photo was taken. So much has changed, but so much has remained the same.

Take the guy in the back row. Please. That’s an ex-husband, hand some as ever, his mickey of vodka stashed in his new wife’s silver handbag. Yes, I invited him. He is my friend, and the father of our beautiful children. The haggard little woman beside him sports the round belly of advanced pregnancy. I see sorrow in her tired eyes. Obviously, he has not stopped drinking. I felt when I met her, once babies started arriving, they would no longer be together. They aren’t.

Honest!

Next to her stand my strapping sons in their tuxedos, turning every female head. One blond, the other’s dark like his dad, they have been breaking hearts since kindergarten. I see them in the picture as good daddies, and wonderful partners for the girls in their future. They are.

Their Uncle Tom is slouched over my boys, weaving, I remember, having made one too many trips to the open bar as usual. He is my ex-husband’s best friend. The two are forever bound together by daily cases of Coor’s Light. I always hoped Tom would find a good woman and settle down. He has. Several times.

There is my sister, forty in the portrait. Because she is younger and slimmer than myself and the other

Next to her stand my strapping sons in their tuxedos, turning every female head. One blond, the other’s dark like his dad, they have been breaking hearts since kindergarten. ”

Gloria Jean Hansen

sisters, she thinks she is the most attractive. She isn’t. Fast living and partying every weekend with questionable characters has left its mark. Her features are hardened, brassy. But she is my sister and will always be special.

This little boy beside me is my own baby, the one who will care for me in my dotage. He is so smart, claims he will drive me around in a Porsche one day. Says he will be the Canadian Bill Gates. I believe he will. Still waiting.

My twin grandsons, the soon-to-be law yers, golf and hockey nuts supreme, spoiled by me. Beside them, my five granddaughters, also muscled and lean, spoiled by me. The reason for their athletic prowess stands di rectly behind them. Look at her, my daughter, all blond beauty and brains, standing up for what she believes in, raising her children in a much more focused and disciplined manner than I raised her.

My kids have far exceeded any thing I expected of them. I think it had to do with The Muppets, Friendly Giant and Sesame Street. When I staggered from a nightshift at the hospital, too poor to hire proper childcare, our television babysat for me. Yeah, yeah--I know what family therapists about such parenting--they weren’t there to babysit for me, gratis. I would grab a couple of hours of much-needed sleep on the couch, my babies on top, behind and before me. They always knew that Mommy was a snore away from being there for them.

So many years have passed since this picture was taken. They have not been kind to my poor mother. Shortly after the wedding, she developed a blood clot in her leg; there was a tumor growing in her thigh. She was gone before the snow fell that same year. As

I gaze at her in this picture, even then, she had an angelic quality to her, almost as though she was already making plans to depart. How she hugged the children beside her in the photo.

And here I am, in love. Thinking nothing can ever come between us. Look at the curls—oh, he was such a hunk. He still is, but he is no longer my hunk. There really is such a thing as the seven-year-itch. We drifted apart, and that is that. I guess I was not cut out for marriage. I came into this world alone, and that is the way I am leaving it.

My fractured family photos. I keep saying I am going to put these pictures into an album, but here they are, shoved in a box for ‘later’. I thought I would have lots of time to sort them out once I retired. I don’t. For now, I still have more work ahead of me, and I will slide the picture box under the bed to attract dust for another few years. I wonder how many empty spaces there will be then. Or how many new little lives. How many breakups, how many new relationships, new marriages, new careers. Family tides, how they forever ebb and flow.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gloria Jean Hansen writes to us all the way from Northern Ontario, Canada and has been sharing her heart-warming stories with us for almost a decade. She makes us laugh, cry, and dig deep into the soul of motherhood. Thank you, Gloria! Please visit her on Amazon. Gloria Jean Hansen. ◆

Spring Break

My children have been fighting for 240 minutes. Yes, I counted. 240 or 14 thousand 400 seconds of whining and fussing about absolutely nothing. Nothing is wrong. They have food and clean clothes, a house dry from the rain and spring storms. 14 thousand 400 seconds of stressing me out.

Not long ago, the sounds of distress the blister of quarrell spilled over to my feet’s edge and I would mediate over their protests a habit I had to quit in order to initiate growth. That’s right. You don’t need me. Figure it out yourselves. I have become my father.

I try to calm myself with trite reminders about missing this disappearing phase. I cannot imagine it’s true.

Like the lie of a quiet newborn between feedings making my womb ache, but I am sure I remember the pain and sleepless nights.

I miss the quiet and it takes all this is in me to stick to my principles and make them figure it out on their own. I know I had four for a reason. They need to practice these skills on someone but I cannot convince them it isn’t me. Go back to your bedrooms full of toys and videos and leave some peace, for god’s sake.

Leave some peace for your mother. Be kind or be angry. Be rowdy or quiet. Just stop fighting.

240 minutes

14 thousand 400 seconds is too long. You shouldn’t even be able to concentrate that long.

Quiet. Quiet my lovelies. Soft and quiet and lazy. Give your self righteousness a break. Or at the very least go out side.

Julianne King

Today’s Mission Debbie Murphy

As Mums, we crave those little moments of solitude where we can finish a cup of tea (or coffee for my American friends)...

Where a bath is more than a race against the knock on the door of someone needing something!

Time to straighten both sides of my hair!!!

Time to just sitand be still.

Reflection

Things have a way of working out for the best. Let's think positive and unite in love. Let's not be superficial but charged with a soulful fire! Ok, well maybe a little superficial. But let's sweep each other off of our feet and learn to love, dance, and finally let go, like peaceful robins resting. Let's look past our differences and enjoy the moment, and rock n roll. That makes one of us. I’ll be sitting on the sidelines sulking! But remembering all my peaceful words.

Eva Tortora - artist and published writer in NYC

Tortora

Whose Scrapbooks Are These, Anyway?

The recent fad for decluttering appealed to me. I started with my clothing, and now, if a sweater or pair of shoes remains in my downsized wardrobe, it’s because I enjoy wearing it. My books, worn with re-reading and sprouting sticky notes, live on uncrowded shelves these days. The kitchen drawers are tidy as Bento boxes.

I’ve learned that, granting myself time enough, I can bring order to anything, am a ruth-

less and dispassionate editor of household objects, and enjoy the process.

Until it comes to my kids’ scrapbooks. My partner and I raised our three children during the Clinton, Bush, and Obama administrations. In that period of time, I made forty scrapbooks. Each is hefty—a square foot in height and length, several inches thick. Too tall and heavy for a bookcase, they stretch along my office baseboard.

Ruth D’Eredita

As targets of decluttering, these scrapbooks have defeated me utterly. They challenge my view of myself as someone whose every possession has a purpose and an eventual destination.

Having children was not something I imagined. I was not a girl who dreamed of her wedding dress. I don’t remember any of the women in my family imagining me out loud as a wife or mother. My family of origin valued graduate education and professional careers and that is what I

started making scrapbooks in which to save those photos and tell their stories. I taped the photos onto bound, scrapbook pages, and narrated many of them, writing the accompanying story in longhand.

“The lacrosse field was freezing and muddy but you didn’t quit. You were such a good friend to your little brother. Look at all the things that interested you. Look how you made friends, and decorated your bedroom, and loved your dog. Look how kind and smart and brave you are.”

And I wrote down the things that, when your kids say them, strike you as so perfectly reflecting their personalities or senses of humor or precocious working out of the world around them you think, I will never forget this moment. And then I learned quickly that, yes, you will forget it, unless you write it down. I wrote down the things I wanted to remember.

And yet I know very well that the nature of narration means the story I tell in these scrapbooks is more mine than anyone else’s. These books are the result of my own choices about what I chose to photograph and what I wanted to say about those years before each of my children started making a whole other world of memories outside the home I made for them, standing ready

did. When I did have children, I stepped through a door into a world of first impression filled with colors I’d never seen before, sounds I’d never heard, every day pierced with feelings I’d never felt before. I mistrusted my ability to remember it all.

In my job as a lawyer, marshalling the facts of a story to tell it well was my go-to. So together with all the photos I was taking of the kids, I

with a camera for all of it. Who was I documenting it all for?

I have very few memories—photographic or otherwise--of my own family from when I was a child. Mom shied away from family photos. She covered her face with her hands when, at birthday parties, my grandmother aimed at us all with her Instamatic camera. For our parents’ fiftieth

“

I can bring order to anything, am a ruthless and dispassionate editor of household objects, and enjoy the process.

Until it comes to my kids’ scrapbooks.”

wedding anniversary, my sister and I hosted a party. My daughter created party favors of paper dolls from my parents’s high school prom picture. Mom looks like Elizabeth Taylor and Dad looks like the lead singer of the early rock groups whose music he still plays—the Crests, the Belmonts, the Duprees. Mom was chagrined that we had displayed a teenage photo of her.

Mom’s reticence about photos may be the reason why the photos of my own girlhood are stored in an upstairs closet deep in my parents’s house a thousand miles away. Every decade or so, I request access to them, to no avail. And that’s okay. But would the story those photos tell of my girlhood challenge my own memories? And it occurs to me that if I had had access to my own childhood photos, would I have still been compelled to create these heavy books for my own kids? I made them as much for myself as for the three people who are the subjects of them. They filled an urgent need in me to document my kids’ lives and, underneath it all, my motherhood.

Whose scrapbooks are these, anyway?

As a decluttering exercise in the ethos that I shouldn’t saddle our kids—now or when we’re gone—with a bunch of stuff they’ll have to sort and dispose of, the scrapbooks flummox me. I cannot make the decision for my kids about what they should do with these scrapbooks or even whether to keep them, any more than I could help them merge onto the Beltway when they were new drivers. Any more than I—who had my youngest at age forty—can make certain they keep in touch with each other when their dad and I are gone.

Why are some of us called to understand and document the earliest events of our lives, while others of us shrug good-naturedly at the stories and photos, and move on?

When I look at my three young adults, I can’t really see which of them will want to keep their scrapbooks, and which will not. Among the three will undoubtedly be three different decisions what to do, if anything, with these books that document their childhoods. And so I’ve come to see them as the one set of objects in our home that exist in a truly liminal state: not mine alone, but not

necessarily bound for a home with my children, either. If I’m true to my beliefs about the objects in my life, and to how I tried to bring up our children, the choice to keep these scrapbooks, or to keep them only in their memories, will be theirs, and not mine. ◆

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruth D’Eredita writes in Vienna, Virginia. She and her husband, Anthony, have been married thirty-two years. Their kids live in Kazakhstan, Los Angeles, and, happily, because empty-nesting is not Ruth's style, the youngest currently lives at home. Ruth is a member of the Mount Holyoke College Class of 1984, and we are delighted to welcome her to ScreaminMamas. ◆ ◆ ◆

Miracles for Us

Great bushes of lilacs purple and flourishing, Smell the moist dirt from the ground Nestling my skin with the morning dew

Fingers touch the grass along the smooth blade

Bees built their honeycomb

Sun touches the boulders reflecting in the sun

The woman’s face shines in the glow of the rays

Our dreams, like the parrot, imitating the words we hear

Light, clear, puffy clouds tossing like cotton balls

Angel spreads her wings as the sky awaits The mountains near the Lord's teaching as the kite goes across the sky.

Marcella

Kumer

Artist Mrinal Kanty Das 19 September 2018

“Weary Wanderer” is one of the art work of my MOTHER NATURE series, Creative Commons, Wikimedia

The Photograph Sara Sarna

The Photograph

That photo. College graduation, 2017. All four of us are in it. I can’t remember if any of us knew the kind person who captured it. My husband and I stand on either side of our son, fully decked in cap, gown and honors cord. His proud grandmother, my mother, stands on my other side. We have traveled a long way, literally and figuratively, to be there. And there we are. My husband’s arm is around the graduate’s shoulders, mine around his waist. My other hangs relaxed at my side, my mother tucked in close by it. In less than four years she will be gone, but in that moment we are all there, proud smiles on our faces.

As I look at this picture my heart pleads with my own image to reach out with that other arm and embrace the mother, the grandmother, standing by my side. How very many moments like this would we change if we could only see how finite the opportunities in them?

◆ This is a happy memory. This is a life lesson. ◆

Riding the Waves

Riding the Waves

It was a crowded day at the beach. Hollywood Beach to be exact. It must have been 8am on a Sunday morning and already the patrons were pouring in. I figured I’d get there early to avoid the weekend rush, but it seemed everyone else was thinking the same. No time to waste. I looked around for an open space and found a sweet spot between two palms so I claimed it quick and nestled in. I dropped my beach bag, kicked off my sandals and set up my lounge chair, laying my blanket right next to it in case I decided to take a dip. The beach was filling up as I was getting comfy. Children were running along the shore, splashing and kicking their feet up. Others were dashing in and out of the water, running to catch neon Frisbees being tossed in the air. And then there were those swimming out to the small crest of

waves that were forming in the distance. But strangely, amongst all the movement and hoopla, there was a peaceful lull. People quietly settling in, the surfers watching and waiting, the gentle roll of the ocean as it swished along the bank.

Then a woman about ten feet to

mistakable smell of Hawaiian Tropic Tanning lotion from the 1970’s. It was this insatiable mix of crisp coconut with just a wisp of vanilla and it called me right back to the early seventies at Jones Beach with my friends. Six to be exact: Maria, tan all year round; Peter and his brother

my right pulled out some sun block or tanning lotion and rubbed it on her daughter’s back. Coconuts. It was the fresh, sweet scent of coconuts.

That’s when it hit me. That un-

John, fun loving with curly tops and sparkling blue eyes; Fran, the freckled-face Irish girl; Mary, already 5’11 at just 13 years old; and, of course, me – the one with the long brown hair.

The adrenaline rushed through us as the pull of the water sucked us into that curl, lifting us and letting us glide along, raising us up as it formed its peak – like we were sitting on top of the world.”

Darlene Pistocchi

Looking around at the crowd surrounding me now, I could envision me and my friends - though it was a bit harder getting to the beach in New York. Here, in Florida, you can just park your car and walk right up to the beach. Getting to Jones Beach you had to park on the other side of the highway, walk through a tunnel, and then trudge through what seemed like miles of steamy sand. I chuckled to myself thinking of us schlepping coolers, lounge chairs and beach bags crammed with Coppertone, towels, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was an all day affair, so if you were going to the ocean, you packed everything – food, drinks, snacks, cards, lotion, umbrellas - everything needed to last til sundown. And even through all that, that beach was always packed.

In the distance I could hear “Rock the Boat” playing, a summertime favorite back then. Perhaps it was the memory, or the modest rush of the waves churning at the shore that recalled it. I missed hearing the static of radios as people searched for favorite songs. No more adjusting antennas to find just the right position for a clear, crisp sound. No more happy sound of the DJ telling us the top five hits for the week or the days’ temperature. I remembered how we fought over which station to leave on. Now everyone searches through endless playlists on their cell phones, by themselves. Long gone are the radio days.

Not so much for the seagulls, though. They could still be heard, loudly squawking and pecking as they gathered at the shore, looking for crumbs or snails or little crabs - any tidbit to snap up and swallow. The flapping of their wings and the shrill pitch resounding through

their beaks was gleeful. I remembered how they used to surround me and my friends as we opened our coolers to grab a cool drink or a bag of chips.

A jab in my rib broke my trance.

“I’m so sorry,” said one of the youngsters with a frisbee.

I grabbed the blue disc that landed next to me and handed it back to her. She must have been 12 or 13, pretty hazel eyes and long blonde locks flowing over her tan shoulders.

“No problem.” I smiled back.

As she hurried back to the shore, I could see the surfers in the distance watching and waiting – anticipating. I thought back to all those times me and my childhood friends used to scramble to shore and dive in.

the sets (waves) started rolling in. We let go of our feet and took that first stroke, it must be at just the right moment. The moment you feel your feet lift off the ground as the ocean’s gravity takes over. Timing is everything, so you start paddling furiously. “Yes!” we would holler, as the wave embraced us, our arms now stretched all the way forward.

The adrenaline rushed through us as the pull of the water sucked us into that curl, lifting us and letting us glide along, raising us up as it formed its peak – like we were sitting on top of the world. What a rush. If only we could have frozen that moment. It was spectacular.

And then, boom! Oh, how we crashed to that shore. Somersaulting, flipping and tumbling under the water, the current of the wave pulling us this way and that, the water engulfing us as we were tossed beneath the surface.

Then we’d swim out to where the waves rolled in. Our feet would sink into the heavy pockets of sand as we waited for our turn. No boards for us. We were body surfers. We were cool.

I could smell the salt in the air as the sea sprayed against our faces. I licked my lips and tasted the ocean.

We would all line up horizontally across the water, bodies facing the shore, heads turned back to the sea, just waiting for that one ride. That one wave that was going to rock us to shore.

The anticipation would build as

As the water receded, we were left amuck and beaten on the shore - our hair loaded with straggly strands of seaweed, sand and broken shells. We caught our breath and got to our feet, feeling weighed down from what felt like 10 pounds of sand enmeshed in our suits from all that tossing and turning, but it was a good crash and burn. We championed the best of them and we were ready for more. The energy, the passion, such a zest for life!

Those were the days.

I miss the golden era of radio, the thrill of catching a good wave and crashing to shore, but today I’m riding a new wave - lounging back and taking it all in. My body isn’t as flexible as it once was but life is still here, and all around me in abundance. There’s a new generation mixed in with the old and Mama Ocean still persuades me with the gentle whish of her rolling shore. Time for that divine dip..◆ ◆ ◆

PEACE

Eva Tortora

Threads of peace

And pebbles of stone

Somehow I will Find my way home

I'm bits of puzzles

Pieces of clay

I will find my truth

And the way

In puddles of mosaics

In dunes of guilt

I will find the origin

Of which poetry is built

Footprints of gold of glory of words

I will stand beside you until your song is heard

Shattered glass and shattered light

Hold me together bold and bright

Looking for swords for peace for letters

You'll hear from me when the Earth is better

The Summers I Never Forget

Sarah Buckley

I watched him outside my window, and was memorized by the way the wind blew through his hair. Thinking he had just plain, boring brown, I finally noticed that there was a hint of fiery red mixed into his copper brown hair. It may have taken me his second year here to discover it, but I would never forget it.

The way he walked and grazed the pasture was hypnotic, one step at a time - looking, studying, watching for any danger to appear. That is what I loved about Duke, he was the most cautious and always watched his back. He was the stronger one, the leader you could say, and the others showed him respecteven though this wasn’t his normal home, he just stayed here for the summer. He was still well-respected and graceful.

I looked close enough and saw his muscles twitch and shimmy. If only I could run my hands alongside his back and shoulders, my

fingers through his mane, but that would have to wait until after breakfast. Ever since being on summer break from school, Dad has always caught me out in the barn, studying and talking with Duke, picking up where I left off from the day before. It wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t hear when Mom called for me and the cowhands into breakfast once I was

in the barn. She will just have to learn to shout it next time, was my always thought, but then was told by Dad to stay in the house and only go out after breakfast was consumed. That is why I’m here now, watching outside the window in secret.

“Laura, time to eat,” announced Mom finally. Forgetting to brush and braid my hair, I did a fast and sloppy job of it as well as throwing on my flannel button up shirt from yesterday. It wasn’t like Duke would care what I looked like, but for some reason, I always did seem to care what I look ed like in front of him. Most likely after eating I’d do a bit of touch up on myself.

“There you are,” Mom said. “Thought maybe you snuck outside again after Dad told you not to.” She placed a dish in front of me filled with eggs, bacon and toast, light golden just for my liking.

“Oh give her time,” said Hank, one of the cowhands, as he shoveled more eggs into his mouth.

“Make sure you fix your hair as well, it’s looking like you slept in the barn,” giggled Ben. “If I come over there would I find straw mixed into your hair?” He stood up, hinting that he wanted to make his way over. An instant reaction made me try and brush through my hair, but caught my fingers on my sloppy braid and pulled lose strands of hair out further. Great.

“Okay, okay,” my father replied. “Leave Laura alone, Ben.”

I always thought that Ben had a little crush on me. He was always teasing me and also making me laugh at the same time. That is what you get for being the only child, and a girl, to a famous farmer. Ben wasn’t bad looking, he was tall, but Duke was a lot taller. Plus I just didn’t want to focus on a relationship, especially if he was going to work on my dad’s farm. What if it didn’t work out? Then I would still have to see that same person over and over again, unless he quit - but he was one of Dad’s best workers.

Finally, after breakfast I was released to go outside, not caring if I still hadn’t fixed my hair. I didn’t want to give Ben the pleasure of knowing he was right. So, on my boots went and away I made my way to the pasture field, desperate for Duke’s attention and the way he laid his eyes on mine. Once he heard me making my way over the fence, he came running up to me full till. If I loved his hair then, I really loved it now, flowing behind him as he picked up speed. His muscles really flexing with the acres he was covering. I then got a little ner-

vous because the more speed he picked up, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop him. I didn’t want to show fear. I knew he would pick it up on me, so I stood tall and held my ground. Sure enough, just before plowing into me, Duke turned and made a circle around me before facing me, making eye contact, pushing out a happy neigh. I watched as his tail swished back and forth, wagging like a happy dog excited to see his owner.

“Hey boy,” I said as I placed my hands on his muzzle moving back to his cheek bones. Even though Duke was a client’s horse, I felt we both shared something that no one else would understand. I brought out the brush from my back pocket and started to brush him down - starting with his bangs and moving down his neck and chest. He closed his eyes and enjoyed my company as I enjoyed his that summer and every summer for many more years because those are the summers I never forget.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Buckley

“I am a married 35 year old, stay-at-home mother of one. Ever since I could remember, I have always loved books and wanted to turn my hobby into a career someday. I attended an online writing class at Institute of Children’s Literature and received two diplomas in the year of 2014 and 2022. I try to submit my work to magazines and publishers to make my dream a reality. I read every day from my little library my husband made for me, and some day would like to make my little space bigger with more books! I have always had an interest in writing for kids, to help show them a whole new world around books and the magic that comes out of them. I just want to share what books did for me while I was growing up and how much they changed my life.”

Dance As Butterflies

Corinthians 2; 5-8

To be absent from the body, present with the Lord

Seems whenever I take a walk, butterflies dance near me.

My Aunt passed almost six months ago. I think of her and butterflies.

When my brother came over, and we walked our neighborhood, he spotted the butterflies. Made me smile.

‘That’s Aunt Dee. She loved butterflies, like I do, too.’

Yes. And, as I walk alone, butterflies dance across the street, bringing simple joy to my heart.

One day we will all be butterflies. We just need to be patient here on Earth,

Our bodies sometimes are weak or sick and we find it challenging in the darkness,

That comes with the heavy weight we carry.

Then suddenly we move on, finding we can be butterflies now, too.

Our spirits are always uplifted, when we place God first.

We are butterflies spinning grace, Knowing our true joy is in heaven.

And moments now testing our wings Is fulfilling because we can fly and Dance as butterflies.

Paula Timpson

“ Butterflies”, by Fujishima Takeji (private collection), 1904, Japanese Painter, Public Domain

via Wikimedia Commons.