by Sonia Beauchamp
We never argued when making dumplings for soup.
When rain blanketed the pine trees in gray mist
and chicken broth simmered shrouds of steam,
I stood tiptoed on the wooden stool with uneven legs.
Irregular seconds beat across the kitchen floor.
by Elizabeth Fergason
My husband Harry and I are on vacation. It’s been a difficult year so we’re giving ourselves a little time off from the pressures of home. Our two daughters stayed behind with a sitter. The girls are three and five and they need a break as much as anyone. A break from our recent tensions, our troubles. Of course, our girls aren’t happy we’ve left them. Children never are. Ada threw herself up into my arms and clung to me the way kudzu clings to a tree. Anna stood at my feet, both hands clamped tightly on my leg.