Mj Pettengill

It isn’t just a sweater; it’s the shelter of him—my father—his care and safety enveloping me as if I were a little girl again.

Together, we navigated the enduring darkness born from life—a tree no longer bleeding at the roots.

These ghosts still wander, reminding me of who we were in what seemed to be another lifetime.

Yes, the shadows are menacing, but we are equipped to find our way.

We are a sum of those fragments of ourselves that we may not even remember, and they are often fueling us.

Salem was just a drop in the ocean...

They called her Flossie. I vaguely remember that photo, looking into her sparkling, clear eyes, detecting an air of innocence. Before I...

In that one, undefined moment, the transformation was inevitable. The truth that had been pressing in came forth from the shadows. My...

Of course, we could provide store-bought mittens, but those crafted by hand offer much more warmth and stability.

How odd was this swirling of love and anticipation—these tears fueled by joy.

It is up to us to reach down beyond those creaking bones and illuminate previously unseen and powerless souls.

If the choice is between horses, cows, or sisters, the cows are the audience of choice because they are polite.

Unearthing and transmuting historical trauma and ancestral wounds is a way back to the light. The journey is beyond reflective.

My instincts were to frown and wish away those pests, those greedy hoodlums. But then I realized that blue jays are not bad.

We continue to pass along the grief and pain of those before us, and in time, forget their origins. We inherit their losses.

I slid into the role of making the most incredible piccalilli east of the Mississippi River.

The sphere of mothers and daughters is much broader, with more possibilities of getting lost.

These flames are a gift bestowed upon me from Hestia, the goddess of the hearth and its fires.

In this life, you provided many valuable lessons.

No star is lost. It is we who have gone astray. We are finding our way home.