words & art by shé

bookshelf

Category: Love

  • Memory Problems

    My father seems to have memory problems. He forgets that his only daughter loves him and means him no harm. And so he writes venomous missives. The first time this happened, I’d just published “Free Love Ain’t” in a national anthology of essays by folks who’d survived so-called counterculture parents. Back then I read and…

  • Turning Toward

    Turning toward love is harder than it sounds.

  • 4 Months in a Jetta

    Nine years ago, at the recommendation of a doctor, I evacuated my home in Olympia, Washington. It was terrifyingly difficult to breathe, and she suspected long-term black mold toxicity. I could not keep any paper, fabric, wood — my life’s work, basically. Wearing a hazmat suit and mask, I sorted through my belongings, setting cast-offs…

  • Distressed

    So, my baby brother would rather hire an attorney than apologize to me. And, get this, my father paid the retainer. What happened to them? The boy I watched over when my mother was too nuts to do so? The man I adored beyond reason? Wow. Their conduct is hard to comprehend. I am a…

  • Dancing Aunties

    Peach, green, blue: aunt, aunt, niece. They sit around the dining room table heads down and focused: crossword, sudoku, school-work. I gaze at them from the kitchen, quiet — they are flowers. I revel in their presence until one of them looks up. “Hey!” their smiles feed me. A song comes on the niece’s laptop,…

  • Struggling with Wait

    I have been heavier. I have been lighter. It rarely has anything to do with calories. Mostly it has to do with happiness. When I set my needs and wants aside—for work, family, friends—I suffer. Self-loathing sets in, the mind attacks the body: you’re fat. You’re over-weight. But in fact I’m over-wait: waiting for permission…

  • Ashes to Ashes

    Signing the paperwork was hard. Fortunately, the funeral director kept getting it wrong. She also lied to my brother and niece, blaming me for the delay. Then more miscommunication ensued, this time about Mom’s titanium hips. Not miscommunication, lack of communication, despite multiple emails. Are they mechanical devices or not? Not. Check the other box.…

  • Painting

    “Paint the ocean,” said my dad, but I didn’t dare. His huge 3D map of northern California covered a wall of his house, sans sea, and I was afraid to screw it up. I was fifteen. Back in kindergarten, though, I painted a picture for my mother every day, so she would be alive when…

  • Ya Gotta Tell ’em

    Pakala. Lying on my board on a small day, waiting for set waves. A stand-up paddle boarder startles me, swiftly passing on my immediate left. He’s gone before I can say anything, and I bob in his wake. Another SUPer quickly paddles after him, yelling in pidgin, “No do that! Respect da surfers! Whatchu problem,…

  • Mary Patricia Kathleen

    “I love you, gorgeous girl!” says Mom. I am between sleeping and waking, delighted to hear her voice. She sounds like she did in her thirties: vibrant, happy, raring to go. Her energy warms my heart, causing an hours-long smile. Unbeknownst to me, her body is in the New Orleans VA hospital: COVID, pneumonia, collapsed…