To be raw and real in the retelling of your own most vulnerable moments creates a profound intimacy in memoir. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to write one. Mira Ptacin explores her own fears and feelings of shame and grief around the death of her brother as a teenager and the loss of her baby in her 20s. She weaves a beautiful tribute to her mother who emigrated from Poland and built a life with perseverance and grit here in America. Americans did not make it easy on her.
The subtle twists and turns of growing up, beginning to relate to your parents as fellow adults, discovering that your childhood perceptions of them may have been misconstrued, and finding internal peace in the process are themes that resonate with me, as I have experienced this with my own parents, and now have adult children going through this phase of life with me. Though I have never had to experience the same kinds of grief as Mira, her example of leaning on her loved ones, finding her own path forward, and being gentle with the healing process (however long it takes), makes me hope I can do so with the same indomitable spirt as her, if I am ever tasked with such a burden.
I probably would never have chosen this book, had I known how much of the story centered around the awful experience of having to make decisions related to ending a pregnancy, so I am glad I was unaware because I would have missed out on so many threads of beauty and love. And every scene that includes her husband is superb. He tends to steal the scene, as he is depicted as sincere, silly, and supportive in all the right ways.
Rebekah Marshall @Home Studio
Ptacin, Mira, poor your soul, SOHO Press, Inc., 2016.
Tag Archives: family
Fire Pit
(Poem 365 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Photos taken New Year’s Eve 2024 by Rebekah Marshall.
It is winter in Texas,
though our photos
make us look like
we are on some tropical
island where the weather
is always a balmy 75
degrees and we can wear
shorts and short sleeves
year round.
The fire is to pretend
it is wintertime, so we
can participate in the
festivities of making
smores, roasting hot
dogs, and sitting around
a fire pit for New Year’s.
We are good at pretend.
It is actually one of our
preferred states around
here because pretend
is usually much more
interesting and fun.
Charlotte had a dramatic
argument with the fire
pit lady for shooting sparks
out at her. It was quite
believable.
Julian scared
himself watching a giant
marshmallow transform
into a huge, flaming beast
with fire bursting out from
inside a hollowed out cave,
turning from dinosaur,
to alligator, to terrifying
skull; its ability to both
expand and melt was
nearly too much for his
imagination to handle.
Maybe later this week
we can pretend some
snow into being and make
a snowman to start off the
new year right.
@Home Studio – 365th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Fire Pit photos to accompany my poem:
Book Journal
(Poem 362 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
I’ve begun a Book Journal,
because I need a new creative
project like I need another cat
or another book for my library.
Each page is filled with pictures
and stickers, doodles and color,
memorabilia and my scribblings
of what went on in my life this year.
The cover says The Sea Hunters II
by Clive Cussler and Craig Dirgo,
but if someone picks it up off my shelf,
they will be sorely disappointed.
The insides are not The Sea Hunters II
by Clive Cussler and Craig Dirgo,
but instead the whimsical story
of the life of Rebekah J. Marshall.
@Home Studio – 362nd poem of the year
Runner ups for the Book Journal photos to accompany my poem:
My Sweet Aunt Mary
(Poem 361 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
My sweet Aunt Mary would absolutely say that it is not a waste of time to spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree. What greater way to spend one’s time than analyzing each forked twig and bough, penciling on paper the exact tally for limb 27.4? All my powers of focus, balance, strength, and intellect are at play, and Amelia (that’s the name of the tree in question) absolutely adores the attention. It’s been years since we spent an entire day together and we’ve missed one another immensely. I may or may not complete the task, but that is not important. The act of singular wonder amidst nature’s display of resilience is the thing.
My dear friend Mary would also understand my anger at certain words when they will not appear in my mind’s screen, how my brain screams words like resentment and frustration and hate at the missing word, but what I really mean is, please come back, I miss you, I need you, don’t leave me.
Mary and I know we’re not invited, but still sort of wish we could experience being a whirling dervish because there’s something in the spinning magic of their dance that speaks to our souls.
Once, when I was a bird, I flew over Mary as she took her morning walk along the tree line. I waited to see if she would notice me, but she seemed lost in thought, or maybe prayerful. She chuckled to herself, as though laughing at her own joke, then stopped to study something in the dirt.
When I grow up, I want to be Mary’s dog Percy. Oh, to be loved with such devotion and cared for in my old age, as Percy was. To be accepted, encouraged, admired, and appreciated just for being me—stinky, silly, lazy, and a devoted friend. To sit all day and listen to Mary chat and read, napping with my head in her lap as she scratches my ears, saved from rough beginnings by the kindness of that gracious lady. And when I died, I would not argue about whether or not God made me. I would know.
@Home Studio – 361st poem of the year (After reading Mary Oliver’s book of poems A Thousand Mornings.)
Oliver, Mary. A Thousand Mornings, Penguin Books, 2012.
Runner ups for the Mary Oliver photos to accompany my poem:
Christmas Breakfast
(Poem 360 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Christmas morning
was all the fun and family
it should be this year,
with 3 little ones
to enjoy the excitement
of gifts and games.
The grown-ups sat
around drinking coffee
and feasted on homemade
cinnamon rolls, egg tater tot
casserole, mountains of bacon,
biscuits and gravy,
eggnog bread pudding with
eggnog whipped cream.
There was just the right
amount of silliness
and chaos and squeals,
and plenty of laughter,
as we all reconnected.
We continued the tradition
Mema liked to share
from her childhood—
orange, apple, pecans,
walnuts, and peppermints
in everyone’s stockings.
Mema would be pleased
that Grandad was right
in the middle of it all,
and was as thrilled as
a kid to open the biggest,
brightest flashlight
known to man as a gift
from one of his grandsons.
Last night, neither Grandad
nor I could sleep. His legs
were hurting and restless,
my cough was keeping
me up, so we were wandering
the house like ghosts at 2am.
Come look, he said,
after swinging open the back
door, standing in the
doorway in his pajamas.
Feel how heavy it is,
he said as he handed his
new toy flashlight to me.
Well, turn it on, he said.
I pushed the button
and nearly gasped as the entire
yard all the way to the barn
was bathed in daylight.
It felt magical,
such power in the palm
of my hand.
Mema would have swatted
both our behinds,
and loved that we are all
taking care of each other.
@Home Studio – 360th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Christmas Breakfast photos to accompany my poem:
Photos taken 12/25/24 by my sister-in-law Brittany Hefner.
Strawberry Shortcake
(Poem 350 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Strawberry Shortcake
was such a lovely girl
who lived in Strawberryland
and rode a pink bicycle.
Her kitty cat Custard
and friends Lemon Meringue
Blueberry Muffin
Angel Cake
Apple Dumplin’
Butter Cookie
Mint Tulip
Lime Chiffon
Raspberry Tart
Café Ole
Plum Puddin’
Tea Blossom
and Huckleberry Pie
always had her back.
And that smell,
oh, that delectable
Strawberry Shortcake
delicious scent,
the aroma of childhood
for a sliver of children
born in the 70s
early 80s.
@Home Studio – 350th poem of the year
Jardín Corona
(Poem 340 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
https://images.app.goo.gl/BA4nMzC4RVPPvq8M7 https://images.app.goo.gl/8hjt24a2SLX8EcVs5
Texans and Canadians
joined
for one last meal
at Jardín Corona
finding a common bond
over Mexican food,
a bit ironic
that the Canadians present
are the only of us
who have ever lived
in Mexico
and spoken
Spanish
as a way of life before,
but we tried our best
to order authentically—
shared chips and salsa,
chile con queso, guacamole,
then our favorites—
carne asada, flautas,
mole poblano, enchiladas
with verde sauce, quesadillas,
beef tacos, pollo tequila
pechuga encebollada
pollo endiablado,
steak, carne guisada,
with sides of rice,
charro beans,
and of course,
tortillas.
Our families are now
tied together
by marriage,
so it’s a good thing we
can at least all agree
on good food.
@Home Studio – 340th poem of the year
Little Village
(Poem 335 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
There’s a little Japanese village
where lanterns light up paths
that wind between neighbors’
dwellings, and rain falls
at just the right time of day,
when everyone’s ready for naps.
There’s miso soup on the stove
and soba noodles in the fridge,
tonkatsu or grilled fish for dinner,
and okayu porridge for anyone
feeling a little under the weather.
@Home Studio – 335th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Japanese Village photos to accompany my poem:
I miss you when…
(Poem 313 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)
Washing my hands in your sink
Sitting in your chair
Writing on your notepad
Answering your phone
Cooking breakfast for Grandad exactly the way you showed me how
Peeling a tangerine
Putting away your dinner plates that stack so easily from the dishwasher
Making a cup of tea
Reminding Grandad to use his cane
Hearing certain doors open in the house
Something cute happens with the kids
I’m sad
I have a big decision to make
I have a success I want to celebrate
I get stressful news
@Home Studio – 313th poem of the year
Day of the Dead
All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.
rebekahjmarshall 