by Lisa Reily a blur of trees, branches thick with snow,bent with the weight of white. chocolate mud as we step from the businto a flurry of snowflakes,skidding our way to the café, passing fat stray dogswho know the food is bad enoughthat scraps are on their way. back on the bus to eat sesame bars,to sip hot coffee from Read More
Tag: lisa reily
before her mother died
by Lisa Reily she didn’t know that her family was only held togetherby an old plastic Christmas tree,her mother’s pierogies,and homemade lemon cheesecake. she had always planned to make her mother’s food,but only ever watched her cook;now her hands were lost without a recipe. she didn’t know her father had never understoodwhy her mother had left him, even though he’d Read More