Kristine E. Brickey

I feel the tension leaving her body as the morning writing progresses.  To others, it may seem she sits quietly; yet, I know that on the inside, there is only movement.  Her pen tap, tap, taps.  Blue lines on white paper remain word free, but the percolator is brewing. In my periphery, her fingers begin moving upon phone keys, words are written, ideas captured, no matter or not if they are shared out loud today. On the drive home, she tells me how much these days help, how as each person reads, it is as if she enters a different room where words dangle from the ceilings; and I am blown away by the beauty of the images she paints for me. I am pulled into her mind. I am inside that room, dangling words overhead, moving gently in the breeze of our presence. She is unaware of her brilliance, unable to see how her light shines brightly and adds to so many lives.  So I will keep reminding her, reinforcing her strengths, refreshing the pride I feel as she fights her way thr...

     Everyone seems to know everyone else and their business. Landmarks like: across from the old white silo, just past the big white barn that got moved, and you know, where that field fire burned recently are used and recognized. Teaching all thirty years in the same town, eventually having former students sitting across from me at parent teacher conferences, their son or daughter, now my student beside them…well, it makes for a unique, once in a lifetime sense of belonging.        I’ve lived in “The Old Lovette” homestead now coming on fourteen years. It’s longer than I have ever lived in one place my entire life. In our little town, when my husband and I walk about during the much loved yearly festivals, my name is called out as we pass by folks of all ages. One year, as we went into the fair on a hot summer evening, Chad straightened his fancy tuxedo t-shirt (thanks, Katie) and announced he was ready to fight off my paparazzi. Before my dismissive...