Scars
Jill Richardson
Scars run across my body like tracks at a railroad terminal. They cross my entire abdomen in both directions. Large scars by any measure.
Scars run across my body like tracks at a railroad terminal. They cross my entire abdomen in both directions. Large scars by any measure.
My grandma died without changing the world. My mom probably will too, as will I. In the world of today, we will have failed.
It was just over a year ago that I was an almost-married 31-year-old living in Philadelphia, starting my first year of graduate school and
If your world is like mine, it is full of checklists, shopping lists, reading lists and even a bucket list. But I bet the
“Hey Mom, you need to write about your running,” said my 10-year-old son. “Tell people why you run so much.” We were walking home
The transition to two children was more difficult than my husband and I expected. This wasn’t due to lack of sleep or a needy
It’s been almost six years since my building principal found me sobbing in the main foyer during the school day. Looking back, my plate
Ten years ago, my husband and I started playing soccer and helping kids with their homework at an apartment complex in our Chicago suburb.
Another Monday arrives, I feel the weight of yet another week coming: how will I keep the children entertained this week, will my activities
Envy: it’s the bone-rotter. The joy-corroder. Buzzkill. I feel it pervade as I look at photos of impeccably adorned, whitewashed Pottery Barnesque mantles, slapdash