Yawning, seven-year old Jackson woke up from his nap; smiling, stretching and luxuriating in his sick day.
“Kids, it’s been awhile. Should we try to poop in the potty?!”
There was an odd quietness in the house, a stillness I could only describe as beautiful.
You’re supposed to be the littlest. You were yesterday.
I have a five-year-old. She’s fierce and stubborn. She’s sweet and empathetic.
Granted, my three year old daughter looks adorable in Afro-Puffs.
The coyote pups have got bold, come right beside the porch near sundown. Gives me someone to talk to, I suppose.
The September he started first grade, my son cried every morning.
Featured: Black Interest
- Scars of the Soul Are Why Kids Wear Bandages When They Don’t Have Bruises
- A Tall History of Sugar
- The Freedom Artist
- On the Way Back
- Game World
- The Hungered One
- The Gospel According to Cane
- Accra Noir (Ghana)
- New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Saba)
- Kingston Noir (Jamaica)
- So Many Islands: Stories from the Caribbean, Mediterranean, Indian, and Pacific Oceans