by Stephanie Clare Smith
August 21, 2024
My mother stands on my desk in a black and white park in a six-by-four photo
frozen in time. A time before me. Before New Orleans was cool. Before she
swallowed her past and kept that to herself. Before the clapboard house she grew
up in became alcoholic. Before the stoop ran away and the living room went broke
and the kitchen stopped talking. Before someone opened the front door to let the
house scream its head off because sometimes a house just needs a good scream.
Before the neighbors called the cops who told them to shut it – you can’t let a house
scream in the city. Before the house had enough and shot itself dead and they
gutted the place that she swallowed first and kept to herself.
Stephanie Clare Smith is a writer of deeply personal and imaginative work with wisdom and beauty that springs from those who understand what it feels like to be overlooked and left behind. She is an award-winning poet and essayist as well as a social worker and mediator who works with at-risk families in the judicial system. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina. Stephanie grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana
Photo by Bhanu Mati