mom’s recipe or
make it up as you go.
Is there a better day
Take the time
Remember the leftovers.
original content and images ©j.g. lewis
A thought du jour, my daily breath includes collected and conceived observations, questions of life, fortune cookie philosophies, reminders, messages of peace and simplicity, unsolicited advice, inspirations, quotes and words that got me thinking. They may get you thinking too . . .
There is nothing definite about autumn.
Fall is fickle, if not downright unpredictable, right down to when it begins.
We have ‘Meteorological” autumn: defined by splitting the year into nice simple quarters with September 1st chronologically marking the day.
Then we have “Astronomical” autumn beginning on September 22nd and marked by the autumnal equinox.
But last week, I observed “Spiritual” autumn, not as much defined by a date as a feeling.
It was unexpected actually. It was Thursday. The weather had been downright balmy as of late and the trees remain lush and leafy. The gorgeous colours so familiar to autumn have hardly arrived, so the morning chill took me by surprise, and I without a sweater.
Indeed, it felt like autumn.
Autumn comes with the end of summer and is elated closely to going back to school.
How many years of my life have been marked by September? Certainly those of my youth, when summer seemed to last a helluva lot longer than it does these days.
Enjoy your autumn; stretch it out as long as you can because winter, most certainly, will be much more definite.
I'm like a pencil;
Still I write.
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
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By Joy R. Wilson Parrish
There is a crack in the plaster that starts
in the corner up there at the ceiling (where the fairy lights used to hang).
I trace its travels with my thumb as it meanders down along
the edge of the Mississippi where New Orleans and
Lake Michigan connect
and watch it turn near the hand print of a 5 year old dressed like
Your house was always Gryffindor.
Your sister prophetically claimed Slytherin
and Ravenclaw was mine.
Hufflepuff stood empty in the year the crack appeared.
The crack in the plaster dips and widens, flows past a shipyard of scummy
tape remnants where images of Lizzie McGuire and then Nick Jonas replaced
the vintage framed covers of Madeline and Charlotte’s Web and
Where the Wild Things are.
(I’ll eat you up I
stops at the floor boards.
Wide, knotted pine planks worn pale by the feet of
160 plus years and
made sweeter in the last 18
are now festooned with glitter and blue nail polish,
covered with discarded socks and open trunks of
A single red high heel holds hands with a custom nike runner embroidered
Rhinestone fragments of
prom dresses and Halloween
chocolate kisses float
I try to catch them.
They slip through my fingers along with the years I am trying to
hold on to.
I remember holding you at 5 days old
in another old house with a foundation cracking well before
The mud of the Mississippi filled the chinks in the floorboards
and shored up the levies of
my postpartum defeat.
My tears were a steady drip upon the
blanket given to my mother
by her own mother,
and then to me.
“I don’t know how to do this but
I’ll try to do my best”,
I said to you back then.
I hope I did,
I still don’t know.
I wrap that old house memory in the satin of your first recital dress,
push it to the back with the volleyball medals and
make room for the waterfall of notebooks and ink pens and
Starbucks cards hastily packed.
I still don’t know what I’m doing but I’ll try my best to
let you go
I listen as the crack in the plaster ticks and
then the dust settles down.
And this old house that has watched you dance and
watched you grow
watched you dream and watched you fly,
in its everlasting wisdom,
as I watch you
step on to the floorboards of your brand new life.
© 2015 Joy R. Wilson Parrish
Joy R. Wilson Parrish resides on the shores of Lake Michigan with an assortment of rescue animals and, occasionally, her two college-aged daughters. Along with her two collections – Sojourn and Rust – her poetry has been published in journals worldwide.