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Sandra Jean-Pierre | Digital Artist & Writer of Words.

Tag: mother

Carry Her With Me

  I was cleaning out my purse and forgot that I carry Her with me. Her last rosary and two coins from our trip to France when I was a teenager. It surprised me to find these, even though I was the one who put them where they were. Opening the thinning Asian-style purse, the rosary came out in pieces. I don’t remember if it had always been like this or if the links gave way from prayers lost and

Mother Magic

  © 2016 Sandra Jean-Pierre Ghislaine. I am forgetting what your laughter sounds like, your avatar, in my memories: head thrown back, eyes closed in joy, mouth wide in mirth- is silent faded I am no longer able to re-produce You fully. What I remember? the sensation of your laughter rattling every wall in the house, coaxing me from my room to find out, “What’s so funny?” I miss You. Your birthday is coming, sandwiched between Mother’s Day and Your

  My father is sick. Usually he calls me every few weeks but that has been lagging for the past few months.  I’ve made extra efforts to keep in touch but it has been difficult. I didn’t grow up with him in my life.  And even though I sound like an after school special, I don’t know how to have a man in my life, like a father figure.  Guess it’s a good thing I like women.  So our relationship

No Time Left For Being Children

© 2013 Sandra Jean-Pierre The cards lay wantonly, this un-winning hand exposed with all watching. Taking the Lion’s share of the suffering, owner succumbing to the decorated waxy surfaces’ hidden meanings. Quickly, quickly! There is no time left for being children! Deaf eyes mute survival with poisoned grief of regret. Blame, thick as flies on death, comes invited by guilt, fermenting like unclaimed bodies in the sun, spoon fed to those who also suffer, who also mourn, who know better

When I was just about to start school, I was tested. During those times (late seventies/early eighties) any kid who was in a wheelchair or had leg braces or seizures was tested to see just how Special Ed. they were.  Me and my wheelchair would be no exception. I remember being taken into a rather large room and met with a male psychologist (?).  In the center of the room was a semi-circle table with part of the center carved