My eldest son, when he was not quite two, loved crushing the daisies that grow like dandelions in coastal Oregon. He'd yank them up, then crush them with a satisfied "Doh!" Yeah, probably the cutest thing on the whole dang planet. But, then again, I'm his mother. Biased to the extreme. Yet, at the same … Continue reading Remember to Crush the Daisies
I remember that striped shirt. The one my father wears. My little baby had barfed all over mine, so he gave me one of his from the dirty laundry. It had smelled... of generic male deoderant. Not the most sentimental of shirts. And he's still wearing it. Maybe my baby should have barfed all over … Continue reading Baby Barf
Father says that like our ancestors who left the homeland to seek out better opportunity, he is leaving the States to a country that's poor, but desperate, for a money-making opportunity. I can only listen as I hold my baby, which he barely sees, and wonder why this land isn't enough for him. Father says … Continue reading What Father Says About Living
I don't like you. Yet how commonly is my adoration called upon to sooth your troubled waters. You set sail without me, and I'm happy. I wanted no life on turbulant seas, but why do you call? Echo for me to give you--not a life line. Not another boat or to call the life guard, … Continue reading Love is Not a Boat
Travel to the mountains and tell me what it means to fill your lungs with ice and air, rocks, dirt, chasms, hills, and tell me there's no God again. Cradle me and whisper warmth from a fire that's not yours, then wrap me in a blanket, nevermind I say the wool will burn, and throw … Continue reading To Us Ericksons
Author T.S. Lowe 