Paris
I got a Eurorail ticket to leave the man who would become my husband now. He flew me to Europe, bought me walking boots, put me on the train. Twenty years and three daughters later, I still return.
Latest — page 3
On menstruation and the birds and the bees
Before they could walk, they already knew what blood meant. Because we never hid it. We never locked the door.
People are performing for a performer who is dead.
Grief isn’t performance. It’s breath that doesn’t fill. A reflection on Diane Keaton, loss, and saying it while they’re still alive.
My baby turned 16 today.
Some nights you don’t have to hold it all. Some nights you’re simply held.
The sword they carry
I didn’t just birth daughters. I birthed flames. They won’t leave my house empty-handed. They will leave carrying the sword I placed.
Women at the beach. What nature already knows.
Before I birthed my daughters, bikinis they were for covering. Today I see them wearing them to be naked in sunlight.
The mother with tattoos
At Matosinhos beach I saw a mother, poised and tattooed like scripture. Her thong flashed. She was the me I stopped becoming.
Why placement beats the bottle
He doesn’t drink because he’s weak. He drinks because he’s unplaced. Placement calms his nervous system and removes the need for escape.