Every so often, we showcase voices from our rising group on this weblog. And this month, we’re comfortable to share the next micro memoir from Mari Mendoza, one in all our judges for the Tadpole Press 100-Phrase Writing Contest.
I watch my daughter on the porch, head tipped again, laughing. As I do dishes, I see her mouth, her eyebrows transfer. I can’t see my mother’s face however I see her head nod. I’m determined to know what they discuss. On the identical time, I don’t wish to know. I see the present of this matriarchal bond: my grandmothers weren’t in my life once I was fourteen. And but, I fear in regards to the math: all this love, this connection, these lengthy swatches of time—do they get subtracted from my little pile of every?
