I don't have time to meet the end, I'm picking at my scalp and wondering-- no, knowing, you'll never try to change it. They call it pride. You call it personality. And I try at scabs and puss and stuff to distract me from never seeing you, because your demons had always danced and sung … Continue reading Dandruff and Mothers
Mama, there is no easy path to ride into your Indian summers. Autumn is upon you now but you stoutly refuse to put on your coat or stop swimming in the ocean. Storms may come, but you insist you can mold any wave with your spirit that still sees itself riding mustangs in the desert, … Continue reading Mama, Autumn Comes
My mother always had a inappropriate way about her. To this day I can still see something like a wild, passionate teenager in her that wouldn't look out of place at a beer-bong party or tearing off her top in a wet T-shirt contest. I also know that she would laugh if I told her this, because … Continue reading A Wild Spirit with a Tame Heart
He, the great who knows he is great, takes his time with sturdy shoes and a shop full of the world's next wonders carving for himself a legacy that he knows is a legacy. So many hate him for knowing it. He, the rich, who only speaks not of it because, to him, there's a … Continue reading About Father
I remember two-year-old me bouncing on the ratty queen bed in my grandfather's basement throwing a rock at my mother's TV. She had found the rock who knows where, but she collected odd things like that. Whatever reminded her of vast open spaces where Indians ran free. She came out of the bathroom in … Continue reading Of Mother
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
Back when I was 17, after I had just moved in with the father I barely knew, I would go running in the mornings during the free hour in-between the 6am Seminary and school. I'd pull on my old dance pants, my sports bra, and an old gym shirt and run around the track in … Continue reading Track Worms
Daddy, you bring out the worst in me. When did I become so mean? I don't even recognize it until I've gone away and can't do much about it. Daddy, even when I think we're okay, it comes out-like slippery worms, at your friends, at your neighbors, all the dirt you didn't tell. I want … Continue reading You Bring Out the Worst in Me
Author T.S. Lowe 