Kristine E. Brickey

       In my dream, we are all sitting together around the outside fire pit, flames casting orange flickers of light and shadow across the faces of the people I love. Marshmallows burst into flame, fiery torches of sticky deliciousness, carefully blown out and stuffed into laughing mouths before the next fluffy morsel is pokered and set over the embers. Memories are shared, denied, blamed on his sister, her brother, the wind, and laughed off as the next tale is told.        In my dream, I sit quietly watching them all, but focusing on two. I see their faces, one on the verge of manhood and the other solidly there. I note their similarities, wonder how my son might have evolved into the man my brother had become.        In my dream, I know it is only a dream. That came with time, with years of dreams that left me panicked, trying to fight my way back to them upon waking.      Over the years of without, I’ve learned to let my dream-self enjoy these reprieves, soak in the moments I am ble

There was so much work to be done on the inside of the house, that for three full weeks I barely slept, tore out carpet and staples, scrubbed and painted and painted and painted. My hands became claws, shaped to fit the brush. When the moving truck left, I was beyond exhausted, excited to pick up my kids from their summer weeks with their dad, ready to be done with work for awhile. However, just outside the front door of our new home, a nasty old cedar bush sprawled. Blocking the sun from the lilacs, my daughter and I knew it had to come down. We love lilacs, and the dark, sweet blooms, yet just a promise for late June, would need more sun to reach full potential. Katie, almost a senior, a tomboy raised by a tomboy, my mini-me, insisted she wanted to chop it. No chainsaw allowed. “We need a hatchet, Ma.” Did we though? I wondered. My friends and I often joked about our exes, about not being allowed to own hogs or rent chippers. I was certain a hatchet would be included on the list of d

 Yesterday, all signs pointed to another shitty day in a row of rather shitty days. Not sleeping more than four hours for multiple nights can leave a gal pretty bitchy, especially when she’s not highly inclined to fight off the bitchiness or pretend to feel otherwise. It was sunny. Didn’t matter. Siding materials finally showed up. Didn’t matter. As I sat on my front porch, background noise of sawing and hammering as Aaron worked on my Brickhouse writing studio, even finishing the tale of the fabulous Lilian Boxfish, who I was certain was headed to an awful NYC death by mugging or old lady heart attack, didn’t matter.  I was, quite simply, feeling foul. I drove into town to return Boxfish and pick up Deacon King Kong, by the talented McBride, which I’d originally been hold number 27. Not even this could crack my grumpy shellac. I called a friend and asked if she could meet for a walk in our usual spot. Knew it was a longshot. Went to walk anyway, solo. Sat in the lot by the community g

It was a spring fed lake, manmade less than a hundred years ago. There shouldn’t have been a current, let alone an undertow. All of these thoughts raced through her mind even as Katrina felt herself pulled underneath the murky waters of Lake Manitoba. She knew not to fight, that water always won, deceptive in it’s calm exterior appearance while beneath the mirror smooth top hid deadly pulls.  Instead, Katrina closed her eyes and let her body go easily where the drag pulled her. She allowed her arms to go limp, dancing overhead, an unwitting, yet easy partner to the undertow’s guidance. As her lungs realized there would be no more air, Katrina saw images from her life pass through her brain. Who would care for her animals, once she was gone? Who would miss her? Would her body be found for burial, or would the depths of Lake Manitoba become her watery grave? As she felt her body fade, her arms floated to her sides and she realized she had stopped moving. Tipping her head back, she opened

       Once, when I was little,  I climbed off the swing at Holland State Park and climbed up the hill that I knew led to where my parents were waiting for me. I remember walking down that hill and up the next, over and over again, certain as I reached the peak of each ascent that I would see my parents just over the crest. Each time I made it to the top and I didn’t see them, I simply kept moving to the next until finally, I decided to rest upon a different swing and wait for them to find me. I was there, kicking my feet up into the clouds, my back flat as I tried to reach the sky, when I heard my mother’s voice, breaking as she called my name. I still remember the terror and relief washing across her features as she ran and scooped me off my swing. I don’t remember how long I was lost to them. It didn’t seem long to me, but must have been an eternity to my Mother.         As I sat at the table last night, after enjoying a delicious birthday dinner of grilled steak and corn on the cob

27: the age he would have been today. 16: the last birthday he celebrated. 10: the number of years he hasn't sat at my table. He was only a few months away from his 17th birthday. Had he stayed, I would have, over the last decade, watched as he'd grown broader and taller. I would have cried and laughed and been frustrated over things he said and did. I would have hugged him tight and embarrassed him with kisses. I can imagine what he might have grown into, what we might have (fill in an emotion here) about these last ten years. They are only imaginings. There's no way to know what would have happened, had he stayed. This morning, however, on his 27th birthday, I do know. I know that within a few minutes of waking up I would have been singing 'Happy Birthday' to my son. Whether he was stationed overseas, living down the hallway from me, or couch surfing between friends' places, I would rise up and be singing his birthday song to him in person or into a phon

Note: This piece was written by a former student (now a grown adult) and shared on her social media. For obvious reasons, it hit home with me in a powerful, emotionally provoking way. When I asked if I could share, Taylor Siebecker immediately gave permission. Aside from a bit of formatting, it is exactly as she wrote it. Thank you is simply not enough.  *possible suicidal triggering 63 various pills used to rest in the bottom of my purse in a ziplock bag; 63 various pills that I carried around, waiting to be taken to end what felt like my endless suffering. 63 reasons why I thought my life was not worth it. 63 pills that felt like they weighed thousands of pounds. I wrote my suicide letter, tears streaming down my face as I tried to explain why I did what I had planned. I still have that letter, buried in my closet; I read it often when I’m alone or wond ering what my purpose here on this earth is.  The thoughts that once raced through my head; they consumed me, they a

Sitting in my living room, a simple foodie show on the television, a little girl sings to a stranger, and suddenly, there are tears. She is sweetness and innocence, her smile sincere and without guile. So, the tears...there is no reason this should loosen them from me. Yet I know the reasons well. In the safety of my cozy home, no immediate worries, I cry. It happens more often these days. Just beneath the layer of ten years of resiliency, still so thin, Grief waits for me. This morning, there is no reason for crying, so Grief knows I am an easy target. Yesterday, I was ready for its arrival, fended off attack with yard work and laughter. This morning, after a restless night of little sleep and a two a.m. walk in the full moon brightness in my backyard, my guard is down. The girl's smile is an arrow delivered through the heart of my sadness, my tears the release of loss and sadness and longing for what has been lost. Some days there are tears. Some days the tears last an impo

These days have razor sharpened my emotions. My eyes fill too quickly with tears. Anger spikes without warning. The simplest things become mountains. Yesterday, I sat in the parking lot of my new chiropractor and cried as I left a message. Today, frustrated tears rolled freely when the vet didn't answer my call. "I JUST NEED TO KNOW WHEN YOU'RE ARRIVING!" I yelled to nobody, dislodging birds from the trees. I'd just finished a calming yoga routine on my front porch. So much for that hour. These days are almost too much. Nerves are stretched thin and raw, ready to snap. It would be almost too much if it was all there was to maneuver; but, add in a decade of grief, new brotherly loss; combine the removal of physical and mental release from CrossFit, massage therapy, and regular chiropractic care; together, they are escalating my emotional fragility. I know I am not the only one feeling these feelings. I know it is important for others to understand that they a

            Her mother has been calling for her. The first minutes, her voice is thrown into the warm summer morning, a simple thing. Now, much later, anyone who picks up on the sound would hear the irritation as her daughter’s first and middle name ring across the green grass and dirt road, disappearing into the breeze.   The little girl doesn’t even notice. She is lost in her own space and time, beneath the rough branches of the small crabapple orchard on the far side of the driveway. Her mother will call all day, but the girl won’t answer.  See, how her eight year old frame lies across her pony’s? The little Shetland is completely at ease, his soft white muzzle down in the grass as he grazes, occasionally crunching a fallen apple, still too green and hard and sour for most tastes. He doesn’t mind the girl, draped across his back like a saddle pad. They are lost in the warmth of love only understandable by girls and their ponies. Lying on her belly, her yellow polyester shorts

My hawk came home today. It's been months since I saw him, since I'd seen any, really. I've been missing my hawks, signs that Robbie is checking in with me. Some people might think that it's crazy, but since my brother died on February 5th, I haven't seen a hawk. Not in my yard. Not in trees along the sides of the highways. Nowhere. May is hard. The hardest, if there is one, of all the months. It's more of a roller coaster, super wonderful days to remember, mixed with the worst of my life. So, it's harder. This year, this stupid, sucky, should have been the coolest year (what with 2020 and all it held in anticipation), has instead brought a decade marker of Robbie's death, the death of my only brother, the Corona 19 virus and isolation, and because this wasn't all enough, murder hornets. Seriously? Murder hornets? Yup. And, no hawks in sight. It might seem crazy with everything else, but no hawks made it all even harder to handle. Where was m

Today I woke up. I wished happy birthday to my puppy. I started coffee brewing. Showered. Chopped veggies for the week. Cooked beautiful, delicious egg white omelets for myself and my 'work at home these days' husband. I did chores. Pet Thor the Mighty Barn Cat. The wind was cold and the sun was bright. But, most importantly... Today, I gave myself permission to stop pressuring myself about, well, EVERYTHING. Yesterday was awful. Horrid. Gray and gloomy and downcast. The weather was bad, too. Yesterday, I fretted about the noticeable downtrend of my strength, lack of motivation to workout, inability to sit and finish writing F*CK It, I'm 50 , increase in bouts of crying and sadness and missing my son and brother. Today, I woke up and decided enough was enough. No more worrying about NOT and CAN'T. Less feeling badly about things that are different. So many things are different now. So many things we cannot do, places we cannot go, and people we cannot se

BOOKS & BREWS TODAY @STEELE STREET BREWERY Ionia 2-4PM  Prompt #3: Leaving If he promised it would never happen again, she would stay. If he quit drinking. If he stopped lying.  If she promised never to tell anyone. If she ignored the red flags. If she believed the lies. She packed up the children, loaded the car, called the dog from the yard, and drove away, leaving him and his broken promises behind. 

When people ask how I am, It’s FINE, is usually my response. My friends know that is code, for the opposite. The dark circles beneath my eyes, proof of sleepless nights and other nightmares. Cantaloupe was our panic word, the come and save me word, for visitation times and funeral day. If we’d been honest, there would have been an overflowing bowl of orange, fruity sweetness, but none of us used it, not even once.  We lie, we fight, we answer, “It’s FINE.” But inside, our hearts are splintering, searching for solace, spinning out of control.  A fellow writer predicted my pinnacle has yet to come, that something more must come from my pain. Right now, my broken heart feels simply broken.  Only the future knows, but for now, It’s fine.

     I have this picture in my mind of my brother. In it, he's maybe Kindergarten, baby blue shirt, hair parted on one side and bangs combed across his forehead. But his face. Oh, on his face is the sweetest, most bashful expression. For some reason, this is the image locked in my mind after hearing the news that he died. It's like my brain wants to keep that innocent image up front to keep my heart from knowing that my brother is gone.      None of this makes sense. There is no world in which this can be real. Yet, here I sit in the dark early hours of a new day, shaking and crying and trying to remember while trying to forget.      When my brother was a teen, he wore a pin that said, 'No Fat Chicks.' He was kind of a, well, a you know what, when he was a teenager, all bravado and ego and full of himself. His childhood nickname, Champ, pretty much laid the foundation for it. But when it came to his family, Dave was always there. His first priority was protecting the

I wish I had a camera  that could capture the feeling in my heart, and then I could show it to you, and you would, maybe, finally understand. My words don’t want to come. My mind doesn’t wish to burden yours, but, if I had a camera, you might understand. I promised, didn’t I,  that I would always keep fighting. If I had that picture, from that camera, would the stress cracks show? The heart is a miracle of muscle, beating to keep us moving, keep our blood flowing. Mine still pumps, but if you squint as you look at the polaroid, the spidery lines cover my heart like lace.  Even the nicest people have their limits,  and some days I ponder the peace of simply staying put, wrapping the comforter over my head, puppy breath on my cheek, warm puppy body curled up in my fetal position lap. Every day I push away the irony of the comforter that brings no comfort, and I rise and shine and make my morning coffee. Yet, even the nicest people have their limits, and some days though I rise,

My first baby is turning thirty, but she is and always will be, my baby. She knows not how tightly she holds my heart. There's no way she can until hers is held by tiny fingers of her own making. I didn't. My father warned me, how I wouldn't understand until I held my own in my arms. The morning I stood outside the NICU, watching my tiny daughter fighting for air, her two pound body small amongst the machines, my father's hand on my shoulder, my eyes overflowing as he reminded me, As I finally understood. And now, she is thirty. Grown. In love and loved. Her future open wide to her dreams. Far away. Missed each day. And she knows not how tightly she holds my heart.

On Loss and the Anti-Resolutions By Melanie Hooyenga The new year brings hope and an optimism for better things to come that typically inspires people to overhaul their lives. Cushioned with the word ‘resolution,’ they tell the world they’re going to eat better, exercise more, go to bed earlier, stop drinking, cut out toxic people, focus on self-care, find a new job, and be content with what they have. That’s an exhaustive list, and while it’s all doable—and admirable!—it’s completely unrealistic to change that many things in your life all at once. The start of a new year is a wonderful time to reflect on things you want to change in your life, but I don’t like resolutions because I feel like if you’re going to make a change, you shouldn’t wait for a particular date on the calendar. Instead of declaring January 1st as The Day I Will Change My Life, why not start tomorrow? Or next Monday, after one final weekend of debauchery? Choosing an uneventful day means you’re less likely to

     As I move into this new decade, my heart feels like it is shifting, priorities seem to be changing, and goals are sharpening. These are all good things, even as they push me to reevaluate parts of my life.       I am struggling a bit with admitting some things to myself. Some parts of my life that have been vital to my healing and survival have softened in my need for them. I'm not sure if I need, no, I'm not sure that I want to continue with some things.       I have been questioning, pushing for hard honesty.  Does this bring me peace? Does the thought of this activity/person/task/goal make me smile or sigh or bring no reaction at all? How will my life change with/without this? Am I replacing this with other things or do I only need/wish to eliminate it? What might the consequences/repercussions be if I make this decision?      It seems impossible that the world has made it to 2020. It seems impossible that I will hit double fives this year on my birthday.

     As I drove into town to run errands, the tears flowed. New Year's Eve. The final day of 2019, the decade that brought my greatest loss. I didn't bother wiping them away. I was in my home town. I might run into people I knew. I might not. It didn't matter.      I was missing my boy.      I am always missing my boy.      2020 will mark ten years without him. A decade of gone. That thought was the catalyst for the tears. Ten. Years. This May, the 16th will arrive and then fade into the past. My boy will still be gone. My heart will still be broken. My memories will roll over me, overwhelm me with laughter and wrenching pain, keeping Robbie's smile fresh and alive even though he is gone.      As grief swells in my chest, threatening to take over, a red tailed hawk swoops over my car. Laughter breaks the dam of pain, washes away the worst of it, and I wipe the tears as I remember. A decade of gone, but also a decade of Robbie checking in with me, sending me moments