Kristine E. Brickey

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 ...

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 d...

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...