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 learne...

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 co...

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 op...

       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...

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 m...