Kristine E. Brickey

Two pounds, 10.1 ounces, angry dark red skin, my fourteen weeks premature girl lay on her back, arms and legs open at her sides-no muscle tone to hold them close, no fat legs or chubby cheeks. She was only hours old, and the nurse in charge of me had done her best to dissuade me from seeing her yet. ‘Get some sleep first,’ she tried, looking to my Mom for support. My mother looked at me, and recognized and understood my resolve. ‘You can put her in bed, but I can tell you she’ll only get up as soon as you leave to find her daughter.’   So, here I was, scrubbed from fingernail to elbow, iv tubes beneath my white robe, all my nerves exposed, and needing to see my first child. She was still in the very first room, where I learned later babies go to make sure they will make it to the first of the most intensive care rooms. I stood in the doorway, white walls, white table. My eyes locked on the tiny creature upon the warming table. My heart felt the wariness of the staff. They fear...

Chaotic Beauty     Naghi’s (Corner of St. Ann and Royal Street) Monday 7/10/17 10:15AM Crystal chandeliers sparkle, drawing first my eyes and then my feet into Naghi’s boutique. “Do you mind,” I ask the man, “if we come and write here awhile?” Without hesitation he waves us in. “Come, come. Enjoy!” The center of the room is a kaleidoscope of fountains, the largest in the middle and moving out in a five foot radius, a hodgepodge of cultures and water spouting magic. ‘Purple Rain’ is painted in vivid variations of eggplant, lavender, and indigo acrylics. It boldly takes up the entire wall above the brick fireplace, filling the corner as brashly as Prince himself might have done when he was alive. Behaving as if they belong there, frightening African masks scowl, laugh and silently scream at me from their positions on the walls. Mixed intermittently among them is a shining white marble statue of three Greek gods, frozen forever in wrestling battle, nak...

*This one is for my amazing, powerful, beautiful baby girl, Kathryn Elizabeth. Tuesday morning we were given a writing prompt, 'The first time'. Many things went through my mind, but this is what settled, and I'm so glad it did. I shared this Wednesday evening during our NOWM Gallier House cocktail/share around. A friend took video, but my phone acted up and only got the first 40 seconds. I made it through to the last two lines before the tears made it all the way out and I had to pause to get my voice out. I am so glad I shared. THE FIRST TOUCH The first time I saw my daughter, there was fear and shock on the three nurses' faces. Two pounds, 10.1 ounces, angry dark tomato red skin, my fourteen weeks premature girl lay on her back, arms and legs open at her sides-no muscle tone to hold them in, no fat legs or chubby cheeks. She was only hours old, and the nurse in charge of me had done her best to dissuade me from seeing her yet; but here I was, scrubbed and...

*I visited St. Ursuline's Convent on Tuesday, July 11th. It is a beautiful, old place created for a sect of nuns and focused much attention on Henriette Delille (pronounced on-ree). Henriette was a Creole (mixed blood), freeborn because her slave mother worked to buy freedom. After many difficult events, Henriette devoted her life to God and the Church. Photographs show her true image, yet drawings portray her as clearly dark-skinned. Henriette Delille was secretly trained and quietly took her vows before two prominent male church officials. She was not allowed to wear a veil, habit, and crucifix because she was not white. Henriette died in 1862 of tuberculosis and is shown in all the statues at St. Ursuline's in 'garb of the day'. Ten years after her death, in 1872, Creole nuns were finally allowed to wear the habit they'd earned through sacrifice and schooling. This writing came from my reactions to this powerful visit. (Pics added when wifi is better) BECAUS...

Hand shaved cypress shingles white scalloped beauty enclose Antioch -Anti-Yoke- Baptist Church on Whitney Plantation. Inside, an escape from beating sun, burning heat Three small black slave children sit upon the back bench. Their eyes are empty, and My breath comes short. Formed from copper, A dozen plus more line the aisle, adorn the pulpit. Peter, the slave whose name hangs from the lanyard 'round my neck sits cross-legged in the front an innocent eight year old trapped in our shameful past. A chill runs over my skin imagining his Mistress teaching him to write before selling him off. Valued at $900 half-Confederate half-Union. Here, their stories are shared, preserved, important. They were babies, I think Valued less than family pets. Their whispers fill me as I leave the coolness of Antioch Church. I have heard your stories, Children, and they cannot be unheard.

Black leather cap Crisp white shirt Black socks, white polka dots bright against the background. The driver counts tickets Two stacks Passes out stickers "Don't leave him!" he laughs when a mother states her 4 year old wasn't given a ticket. A career of field trips, I think watching as he recounts wondering how often a guest is left behind Laughing as one and another guest leaves for trash dumping or bathroom use. Recalling classroom trips Managing 200+ teens Counting and Recounting All accounted for...fingers crossed. Polka dot socks closes the door And away we go!

One Dollar, One Dollar! The coldest water in the city...DOCUMENTED! The red, white and blue clad vendor hollers his cadence. 8 bottles a day keeps the doctor away! One bottle of MY water and you can run 10 more! he yells as a trio of joggers pass. "U.S. Vet, Please Help" states the faded marker cardboard sign Silent, he sits on an overturned white bucket head down. Water Guy strolls over Talks gently for a bit Shakes the Vet's hand and passes him a folded wad of bills Before quietly walking back to his ice cold cooler and beginning his litany again. My pen takes it all in.