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Milking Sunshine

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Sky, Sand, Sea by Anya Holloway

Sky, Sand, Sea by Anya Holloway

River withdrew into the corner of the barn and cautiously watched her mother, Lily. A few months earlier, River’s parents had transformed the old backyard shed into a home where a goat could live. The goat was to replace the dog River had always dreamt of owning but her mother prohibited because of her allergies.

“The benefit of owning a goat over a dog,” her mother had said, “is it will give us milk to drink.”

This confused River. She had always thought milk came from cows. Her face had twisted in an awkward stare and her mother had smiled. “All mammals give milk after they have babies,” she’d said.

“Did you?”

Her mother had nodded. “And it was fit for human consumption.”

She’d winked and went on to explain that in some countries humans also drank the milk of sheep, yak and other animals.

The day Sunshine arrived, River waited for her mother to milk the new goat. She wanted to see if the stories about drinking goat’s milk were true. But her mother didn’t milk Sunshine. That night River gathered the courage to ask why.

“Sunshine’s owner told me she was three months pregnant,” her mother said. “We have to wait two more months until she gives birth. Then we can milk her.”

So River waited, ticking days off the calendar until sixty had passed. Still, the pregnant Sunshine held tight to her baby. When she told her mother the baby was overdue, Lily’s hand stopped in mid-cut of the potato she was peeling. For a long moment she stared at the vegetable as if it would jump from her hands.

“Maybe she’s not pregnant any more?” said River. When her mother didn’t respond, her mind searched for an answer. She was only ten years old but she had good ears and listened to adults when they talked of such things. “Maybe she lost it. Should I look for it?”

Lily released a low whimper and took a deep breath. Her voice sounded strange to River. “I’m sure the goat will be fine. Now do your homework.”

“It’s all done.” She was about to give more reasons as to why the baby hadn’t arrived, but when her mother turned, she saw a familiar tortured expression and tears welling in her eyes. Her mother looked as if she would scream in pain and it scared River. “But I have to read for ten minutes.”

She quietly left the kitchen. Instead of going to her room, River escaped to the barn to watch Sunshine. The goat was happy to see her and stuck its nose through the fence hoping to get a treat.

Three days later, River woke to Sunshine’s shrieks coming in her bedroom window. She sprinted from her room to the back door where she was in time to see her mother enter the barn. River’s heart raced. Someone or something was hurting her goat. She pulled on her boots and rushed after her mother.

When she entered the barn, the sight before her stopped her cold. Sunshine was on her side, wailing and stretching her body across the hay. A large, wet bubble protruded from beneath her tail. River could see a dark object inside. Lily was kneeling next to the goat, rubbing her belly. The worried expression that shadowed her mother’s face the past few days had been replaced with concern.

“The baby’s coming,” said Lily.

River stepped backwards and found the safety of the corner, grasping her hands behind her back. She couldn’t help; she couldn’t touch the fluid bag slowly emerging from Sunshine. With each wail the goat pushed the baby-filled bubble further out of its body. Finally the goat half stood and the baby slipped onto the soft bedding.

“Great job, Sunshine.” Lily patted the goat. She cast a relieved smile at River and beckoned her closer. “Come see the baby.”

The goat kid worked to break free of the membrane prison. Sunshine leant forward and licked the clear goo. River gagged and turned away.

“This is normal,” said Lily. “I read about it in the goat book.”

Normal or not, River didn’t want to witness the scene. She heard her mother giggle and she looked to see the little goat struggling to stand as Lily used a towel to wipe the afterbirth from its wet hair. It made a high-pitched bleat and flopped to its belly. The goat kid tried again and this time managed to stand straight.

“It’s cute,” squealed River. She relaxed her grip on her hands and was tempted to walk closer. Her mother continued to clean the baby with the towel.

“We are now the proud owner of two wonderful goats,” Lily said.

Sunshine wailed and flopped down on the hay. She gently rolled on her side and paddled her hooves in the air.

“Why is she doing that again?” asked River.

“There must be another baby.”

“Two?” River peered closer at the goat’s tail but she didn’t see a bubble.

For several minutes Sunshine moaned and wailed and struggled to release the second baby. River watched her mother. The worry had returned and it appeared that she held her breath, waiting for something horrible to happen.

The second baby emerged slower than the first. Long moments passed before Lily held the baby securely and gently eased it the rest of the way. There was no movement. Lily quickly wiped the sticky goo from its limp body. In a rush she cleaned the face, opened the mouth and nudged the baby, but it still didn’t move.

River heard her mother mumble as she gently shook the newborn. “Please, please…” she whispered. “Come on….” She held the baby in a standing position but there were no signs of life. Clutching the baby in her arms, she rocked back and forth and moaned.

The first-born kid nuzzled up to Sunshine on wobbly legs. It bleated, calling out to anyone who listened. It scrambled beneath its mother and hid behind her.

River wanted to laugh at the goat kid’s antics but her mother’s grief held her frozen in place. The anguish that painted her face now had also coloured her in the past, leaving River to wonder what had happened to create such deep sorrow.

“Mommy,” whispered River, afraid her mother would become angry or collapse and curl up into the hay sobbing as she had done a few years before. Her father had been there to intervene, to tell River everything would be okay and after a few days he was right. But her father was at work today. River could run and get their neighbour, Mrs. Collins, but she was terrified to leave.

“Will it be okay?” It sounded like someone else’s voice talking to her mother.

Lily shook her head and looked up with tears streaking her cheeks. “No,” she mouthed, releasing more tears. She motioned her daughter closer and River reluctantly obeyed. Her mother gripped the dead baby in one arm and embraced River in the other, sobbing on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” A lump formed in River’s throat and it hurt to talk.

“Because… I couldn’t save it.” Lily held tighter.

“Mommy, it’s not your fault. You can’t keep a life that doesn’t want to stay.” She felt her mother’s hold loosen and she leant far enough away to see her mother’s drawn face.

The first little goat weaved in and out of its mother’s legs and nudged the teats, looking for its first taste of milk. Lily watched the baby and half smiled.

“It’s okay, Mommy.” Lily pulled River close and kissed her cheek. They hugged until River’s arms ached. “What do we do with it?” She caught her breath, afraid she would stir up the pain in her mother’s heart.

Lily sniffed back the moisture in her nose. “We must give it a proper burial. We’ll keep it safe, near to its home, so it can be with its momma.”

River and Lily buried the baby goat beneath the great maple in the backyard. They painted a large, flat stone with flowers and wrote the name Sunny on it. Then they picked a bouquet of flowers and placed it near the stone. Lily gripped River’s hand. They stood together and admired the afternoon light on this special spot. A robin flew near, perched on a branch and sang a sweet song.

Are You Listening?

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Still life by Roxanne Smith

In the Inn: Medication and Mirror by Roxanne Smith

Your child, who is joyful, creative and loving, metamorphoses at age 18 into someone you don’t recognize. She becomes a raging, frightened, lost soul who slams doors and forgets how to dress, sleep, talk coherently or perform any of the things we all do so naturally. What do you do? Knowing that your child is not a drug user or a drinker you do what any loving parent would do. You take her to the doctor, have her admitted to hospital, and sit clutching the pain in your heart. You wait for someone to say she is going to be just fine.

But they tell you it is your fault, that you have been a terrible parent. It is best you stay away, they say. But of course you can’t. You seethe at their stupidity. Why does no one ask you what kind of person she is, what she loves, what makes her heart soar? She is unable to dress herself, to bathe, to return a hug. And you are unable to grasp their words: This, they say, is a behavioral problem.

Sleep eludes you, and you wonder, have I missed something? Should I make room for their point of view? They discharge her and recommend tough love. Find a room for her and let her figure it out, they say. You find her a room in a home two blocks away and leave her there. You feel sick, certain that this is wrong, so wrong. In the morning there is a note in your mailbox. How could you, it says. Remove her from our home immediately. You take her back to the hospital. There is no choice.

And still, you are to blame. You are incredulous. You become mother bear. You speak on the radio, the television, you write to the newspapers. You fight for better care, for some acknowledgement of the terror of losing your child to something you don’t recognize. The drugs they give her make her eyes roll up until her irises disappear. Her hands tremble over piano keys that no longer meet her fingers and nothing makes sense. She is ignored, locked up, fractured, bruised, until one day, after eight years in hospital, a smart geneticist makes a diagnosis of a syndrome–she is missing some genetic material on her twenty-second chromosome–and it all suddenly does make sense but there is still the terror that no one can fix her. They do, however, try. A few kind souls emerge from the staff you find so hard to trust and they acknowledge that she is extremely ill. They offer soothing gestures. She is young. She has potential, they say.

Two more years go by in hospital. She is discharged again. The beautiful small option home has a piano! But it is next to a huddle of staff and housemates crowded around the television. The overwhelming smells of Comet cleanser, deep fried chicken, and staffers’ cigarettes coalesce and swirl around with the high-pitched voices of too many people jammed into too small a space, hollering, ordering, berating, complaining, and her brain short circuits once again.

Back in hospital the isolation, threats, electroconvulsive therapy, security guards, and the bedroom with peeling paint all reaffirm for her that there is no hope.

Five years later, and 15 years after it all began, they want to place her permanently in a locked facility in the community. We have nothing more to offer, they tell you. She no longer has potential. You say, I’ll take her home. You have seen the bubbles of wellness that they have missed.

She is home. The rages tear you apart. You struggle to meet her explosive moments with calm presence. But between the lows you see the tiny moments of clarity. You nurture them, coax them, reward them. Every baby-step counts. You are teacher, nurse, counsellor, paramedic. And always the loving parent. You tell her things will get better. Nothing is permanent. Life is worthwhile. One day, sitting in the dark beside her, you realize those words aren’t helping and so you stop talking and just sit. And sit. In those moments you hear your own racing heartbeat and become aware of your shallow breath. Although you don’t know it you have begun the practice of self-compassion. And out of that loving care for yourself, and the acknowledgement that it’s okay to feel helpless, comes the first real lesson. The one thing you can do well is simply sit. You are finally ready and able to listen.

In a moment of quiet you say to her, this is good. Just sitting here together in the dark, being quiet, this is a healing moment. Good for you. And she says to you, I don’t know how you do that, wait for me to settle. It’s simple, you say. You tell her there are no isolation rooms here, no withdrawal of privileges. Just moments of quiet sitting. You tell her she is doing the work of healing in this moment. And over time she discovers she has the power to choose to sit quietly. You keep her company. You listen to her words and your own thoughts. The rages lessen, stop. The quiet moments grow.

Spring finally comes. You watch as she re-discovers spider webs, leaf and bark patterns, cats, creeping vines, crunchy ice underfoot, a dropped penny, bits of coloured wire, tiny buds peeping up through the last of the snow. You see that the stillness has spilled into her days. And out of that stillness grows the sound of the piano and her beautiful, clear soprano voice, the smell of her freshly-baked cookies, the beauty of her photographs and paintings, her tiny clay sculptures and the sound of her laughter as her dog curls lovingly over her feet.

Lebanese Kitchen

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Lemon Curd by Kelly Neil

Lemon Curd by Kelly Neil

It’s six o’clock:
I’ve barely closed the front door behind me
and already

the sound of arabic mixed with
french mixed with
english

the smell of fresh garlic mixed with
all-spice mixed with
lemon

clings to my
thick brown hair.

Mom’s kitchen is the closest I have
to my grandmother
to my grandfather
to the olive trees
fig trees
cedar trees

to the breathtaking mountains
and the Mediterranean sea,

my second home.

My mom
your mom
his mom
her mom

since we can’t go there
thank you for bringing it here,

to our kitchens.

Stolen Seconds

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Angry_sky_Resized

Angry Sky by Dianne Murdoch

Sometimes I steal into a quiet garden to stand by the washing line
Laundry forgotten in my hands as my eyes search grey skies
Looking for something, searching for something
Seeing everything but noticing nothing
I breathe deeply and release one long shuddering sigh
A breath held without conscious mind
Waiting for just a few minutes rest to fly free from a constricted chest
I look down at trembling hands that clutch such tiny clothes
Representations of the miniature people so large within my life
Leaving little space for me as I shrink and shrivel to give room for their growth
I let go
Of the laundry
Of the breath
Of the stress
Of the tiredness
Of the constant needing, feeding, reading, singing, sighing, playing and praying for peace
I let go and close my eyes
Wondering if tears will kiss my cheeks in gratitude
For these silent still moments stolen swiftly beside the washing line.

Mothering

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Owls Can Live 100 Years by Rose Adams

Owls Can Live 100 Years by Rose Adams

Mother knits you
from snot & silk & memory,
building your tiny bird bones
from her own teeth
and glass upon glass
of full-fat milk,

or else she finds you
& your valentine heart,
builds a nest from light,
sap & broken branches,
circling the wild air,
singing your homecoming.

You have her eyes
even if
you don’t.