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where the kettle’s always on
It is Mother's Day in Northern Ireland. With all good intention, I had marked the day on my calendar but still forgot to send a card, time running away from me like Bukowski’s wild horses. The water is wide, but it will take only a second to transport me back to my mother's kitchen. I'll pick up the phone to tell…
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put the kettle on: happy mother’s day
One afternoon in the household appliances section of a store in Guadalajara, I paused by an impressive selection of irons before placing one in my grocery cart. Atonement, I suppose for that time in Phoenix when, in an act of mild rebellion, I donated my ironing board to Goodwill. If you’re from a certain time and place in Northern Ireland,…
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an irish mother’s day dance
Old Smoothing Iron by Seamus Heaney Often I watched her lift it from where its compact wedge rode the back of the stove like a tug at achor. To test its heat by ear she spat in its iron face or held it up next her cheek to divine the stored danger. Soft thumps on the ironing board. Her dimpled…
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on my mother’s birthday
Old Smoothing Iron by Seamus Heaney Often I watched her lift it from where its compact wedge rode the back of the stove like a tug at achor. To test its heat by ear she spat in its iron face or held it up next her cheek to divine the stored danger. Soft thumps on the ironing board. Her dimpled…
