the guitar whispers on a corner stage
could it be love
probably not

crisp wind
memories of yesterday
cap and gown

standing on the beach
endless waves
white froth tickles my toes

kids going to school
running late—
the first snowflake falls

canoe ride
lunch on shore—
dog runs away

comfortably resting
on the couch
a daughter’s peaceful sleep

empty lot next to the church
cousins dressed
in Sunday’s best

cold nights
sisters share the bed
three across

pine logs
sap gathers on my arms
wood stack

dog poop in the yard
neighbor in the lawn
scooping poop to ours

bareback
on my pony—
the quiet of nature

driving
   trees
      draped
      with
     moss
Georgia

at the pizzeria
waiting on the pizza
garlic fills the air

dirt road
sunset
cheer from the crowd

One of my favorite memories was going to my grandparent’s house on Vanderhoof Street in Decatur every Sunday after church. My family did this for as long as I can remember and after they passed away, it seemed weird not going there anymore. During the months that ranged from the end of spring until it started to get cold in the fall, our family would always pick up something up to eat whether it was Krekels or KFC and eat it in the back yard.

My grandmother made an oversized quilt back in her younger days and we would go outside and eat on it most Sundays (weather permitting). Every time that I look at the quilt to this day, it brings back those memories and reminds me of my grandparents. Some of the sensory perceptions that I remember the most are the smell of the the leaves that were on the quilt that can sometimes linger in the fabric.

My grandmother was diagnosed with cancer back in 1996 and died in 1997. She had that quilt wrapped around her when she died and to this day the quilt is still in my possession. For many people, they have something in their lives a token of something that is very dear to them, for me, it is my grandmother’s quilt.

Barry Cripe

It was a beautiful spring day and I spent it helping to get my grandmother ready to be buried. People were coming from all over the country. Six kids and 27 grandchildren and then the great and great-great’s. Life and death mingle together in a cacophony of insanity. And there sits this little bitty child asking why her grandma’s look at each other like cowboys.

Several years back when my daughter was only four years she asked me “why do my Grandmas look at each other like cowboys?” After talking to her for a few minutes I found out she meant the gun fighter glare that the grandmas give each other. My mother and my husband’s mother staring, squinting, waiting to draw their metaphorical guns and shoot each other down. This cat is waiting to pounce at high noon, just like the grandmas.

My daughter asked me this question after my mother and I had taken her (my daughter) to the other grandmas to spend sometime. My own grandmother had died and my mother and I were taking clothes to the funeral home. When we dropped my little daughter of the two grandma’s just stared.

Becky Ives

I adopted my, son, Jeremy, in Kyiv, Ukraine. It was Spring, May of 2004. I was standing in line at an orphanage, waiting my turn to visit my pre-adopted son. While waiting outside the old playground, in the distance I saw nine brightly colored baby prams. The yellow prams were lined in a row in a courtyard. There were two nurses walking around the babies gently rocking each carriage as they walked by, singing a Russian lullaby. I was mesmerized when I saw a tiny leg sticking up in the air. I could see the infant’s toes spread apart. It was a wonderful beautiful sight; however, emptiness filled my heart because I longed to hold that baby.

          Peggy Brown

I remember myself cradling my newborn daughter after six weeks of returning home from the hospital. This was the first time I was able to cradle, protect, and love my daughter after she was born. Before then she was hooked up to machines and laid lifeless in the hospital crib. On this particular day I held my daughter in my arms while I rocked her to sleep. I could remember looking out the window watching the cars go by. It was a nice, cool, breeze day and the air was soft and calm. It seemed as if the cars that went down the street drove so quietly and I was at peace at this time in my life. This haiku reminded my of life, peace, and motherhood. After reading this I question why life and motherhood does not seem like this of a regular basis.

Tia Randle