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Sentimental Value by Briana Lawrence

We are moving in two weeks. And in my frenzied attempts to clean and purge things I no longer use, I came across my old red suitcase. My parents had bought it for me in 2005 before my semester abroad – they said I needed a ‘good set of luggage.’ At the time it had two other luggage mates of different sizes, but this is the only piece I have left. 

 

I drug it downstairs to check its contents – three maternity bras and an old pair of jeans. Everything smelled musty, like it had been sitting in a damp attic for a decade. I put the suitcase near the door and told Flynn to toss it since the main zipper is broken and the wheels don’t spin properly anymore; it’s like a grocery cart that rolls every way except the way you want to go.

 

I stared at it for a while as it sat with a pile of other things destined for the trash. 

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Five (For Lu) by gringohomechile

I walked down the steep and dusty hill in beat-up jeans that I had bought in a secondhand store in Santiago. They fit poorly and were seriously worn out, like most of the clothing we wore then. I wasn’t pregnant yet but while I navigated the path I daydreamed of you. What would you look like? Would you have my eyes? Would I be a good mother? That July, I knew you were a girl - before the doctor said it, before I heard your heart beat for the first time.

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New Year by gringohomechile

I woke up New Year’s Day, shivering in a tent for two on the cold ground near the herb garden on my friend’s farm. On account of my clumsily spilling an entire bottle of red wine the night before, I had soaked myself in the good stuff and was paying dearly as I slid my frozen, wine-stained clothing back on in the early hours. My tent companion slipped away to converse with the other outdoor sleepers, the chickens nearby, as I hastily packed up the tent. I scurried upstairs to the farmhouse, content to find proper breakfast, coffee and a hot shower awaiting me.

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Alone by gringohomechile

As any mother of small children will tell you, there’s never much time to be alone. And regardless of your profession or work status, mothering is a full-time position. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t overwhelming. Some days it’s overwhelmingly full of big joy and laughter and other days it looks more like me barely keeping it all together, summoning all the patience I can manage to make it work.

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