He asks for my hand and inspects every wrinkle, connects every freckle, traces every line with his fingers.
He quietly analyzes my palm, with a look of angst drawn on his young face.
He tells me how many babies I was supposed to have and when I’m going to die.
Deirdre Smith has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember. She is a part-time Guidance Counsellor and a full-time mom. She resides in the always colorful St. John’s, Newfoundland.
I move the cart gently back and forth, trying to comfort you while I inspect the fruit.
Strawberries are your favourite.
I look down with a smile, expecting to see your wide eyes staring back at me.
Automatic movements from days gone by, still with me all these years since.
Deirdre Smith has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember. She is a part-time Guidance Counsellor and all-the-time mom. She resides in the always colorful St. John’s, Newfoundland.
She takes off her armor: her wig and her smile.
Another day battled; another day conquered.
She is pale. Her cheeks are sunken.
Some may mistake her for frail, but she is a warrior.
She stares at her new self in the mirror, unsure whether tomorrow will be the same.
Deirdre Smith has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember. She is a part-time Guidance Counsellor and all-the-time mom. She resides in St. John’s, Newfoundland. This piece was written for Childhood Cancer Awareness month (September) in memory of her cousin Becky Courage.
The unannounced sun beams into the kitchen, spotlighting its flaws.
A forensic scene of children’s fingerprints, toasted crumbs, and syrupy smudges.
Crayola-coloured patterns of joy dance across the floor as he bends his way through a window crystal.
In the evening, the truth is gone, but so are the rainbows.
Deirdre Smith has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember. She is a stay-at-home mom and a part-time Guidance Counsellor. She resides in the always colourful St. John’s, Newfoundland.
He pushes his darkly scarred fingers into his ears. He spends most of the day like this.
He walks through the world inside his head.
He listens intently, to what or to whom we long to know,
but the fly on the wall of his mind will be trapped forever.
Deirdre Smith has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember. She has recently started back to work as a teacher and Guidance Counsellor after a decade of being a stay-at-home mom to her three young children. She resides in St. John’s, Newfoundland.
We walk through the old cemetery, reading 19th-Century gravestones.
The ancient trees tower.
Their roots lift the pavement as if pushed up by the hands of those below.
I maneuver the stroller as she tells me stories of ravens that would swoop down and steal newborns out of their prams.
Deirdre Smith (B.A., B.Ed., M.Ed.) has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember. She has recently started back to work as a teacher and Guidance Counsellor after a decade of being a stay-at-home mom to her three young children. She resides in St. John’s, Newfoundland.
He sits on the park bench, remembering her.
Not long ago, she was by his side.
If you stare long enough, you can see the boy he used to be.
He smiles at me and I at him.
His, an unspoken invitation; mine, a polite offering.
I quicken my pace.
Deirdre Smith (B.A., B.Ed., M.Ed.) has dabbled in writing for as long as she can remember. She has recently started back to work as a teacher and Guidance Counsellor after a decade of being a stay-at-home mom to her three young children. She resides in St. John’s, Newfoundland.
He lies in the bubbly bath water, face protruding enough to comfortably breathe.
I gently pour water over the soapy hair on his forehead, the bit that didn’t quite make the dive.
He doesn’t flinch.
He smiles at me and I at him.
Today, my baby is a six-year-old fish.
Deirdre is a stay-at-home mom to three young children. She has a degree in English and a Masters in Counselling Psychology.