mothers and daughters
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At the Museum
I have seldom visited a museum when I didn’t return home with a feeling I had not had when I departed.
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The Saturday Rumpus Essay: Stars Hollow, Revisited
They always find their way back to one another again.
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Catalogue Broads
Still, stories are subject to a gravity of their own, leaking out of the crevasses of a person’s crafted exterior like coffee from the hairline crack of a ceramic mug.
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Broken Bird: Reflections on The Upside of Anger
We were both fighting with our mothers to be seen and accepted; it mattered to us as daughters that we had that kind of support.
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The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Cold Blue
On freezing winter nights, Cathy Bell finds some small respite from the pain of migraines and maternal estrangement.
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Crack My Heart Wide Open
Surviving suicide is like balancing on the edge of a blade. Either way the knife flashes, you’re going to get cut.
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Litany for My Mother’s Body
My mother’s body horrified me. Nine years old, I watched her dress. Her belly was rippled and sagged and scarred—a used-up bag of nothing.
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Life As We Know It
In her recent piece on Salon, “Am I an alcoholic?” writer Kathleen Volk Miller describes the way her mother and her sister lost themselves in drink, contrasting this with her own decision to be in control of her booze, not the…
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Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying
No one comes in to check on me, no one asks if I’m okay after I finally emerge, embarrassed, my eyes completely red. They all love me, but not enough to forgive what I’m about to do.
