Jessica Conaway
Stories (56/0)
Motherhood in One Act
The sun isn’t even awake yet, but she’s already a failure. It’s the formula this time. She mixes the powder and water and realizes too late that she has grabbed a bottle from the dirty side of the sink. She has to start again. As she dumps it, she does the quick math in her head; 29.5 ounces in the can. The can was $34.99. 2 ounces in the bottle. How much money per ounce? It doesn’t matter. It’s liquid money oozing down the drain. Money that they hadn’t planned for and definitely didn’t have to spare.
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Families
Poetic Wisdom in a Wire-bound Notebook
My mom died on a rainy Tuesday in August, and I was angry at her for a long time because of it. I still had four months left in my pregnancy; four months full of weird discharge and scary sensations and conflicting advice coming in from every angle...how would I know what was normal if I didn't have my rational, seasoned mother to tell me?
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Families
The Total Mother
The following is an essay written by my mother, Rebecca Dotson Lynes, who passed away in 2014. She wrote this piece sometime after January of 1983. I found it years ago, tucked away in a box of old pictures, and I still refer to it on days when I'm dangerously close to falling off the edge of the Cliffs of Motherhood Insanity. I always thought my mom was pretty perfect. It's reassuring to know that she was at peace with her flaws.
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Families
Perfectly Angsty Ballads for Fledgling Drama Queens and Theater Geeks
It will come as a shock to absolutely no one that I was a teenage Drama Queen. To clarify, I was both an avid participant in my high school's drama program, and I was prone to having big, overly dramatic reactions to minor inconveniences. This was typically accompanied by the slamming of doors and a whole lot of this:
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Geeks
Summer Cousins
There was magic in our lake. That’s what Grammy always said. But then again, Grammy had a bit of magic in her, too. Each year on the last day of summer, Grammy packed her picnic hamper and together we’d carry it down to the old dock where the reeds were thin and the ducks liked to gather. We’d sit for hours with our feet dangling in the water, just Grammy and me, because I was the oldest and (I suspected), that made me the favorite. We ate cheese sandwiches wrapped in crinkled brown paper and thick slices of Great Aunt Millie’s angel food cake, and Grammy told me stories about when she was a girl. I’d swat at the horseflies and watch the rich people’s boats sway in the breeze while I imagined a little girl version of Grammy splashing in the water and racing her older sisters across the shoreline. On these Last Days, I could tell Grammy all of my secrets, and Grammy only ever listened as she stroked my hair until the sky turned purple and one last lonely boat fluttered on the horizon.
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Humans
Communion
The city turns gray the night Rochelle Reid dies. The skyline gives in to the festering grief in its core; the brightest of them all is gone, so what’s the point of any of it? In life she painted this place in vibrant gemstone color, but without her it’s nothing more than a stone city of cold haze and muted blues. It’s been raining steadily since daybreak. The hospital chaplain says that it was evidence of God weeping for one of his fallen angels. I know what he actually means but keep quiet out of respect for Rochelle’s mother, who is very old and doesn't quite understand.
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Humans
The Best Little Hoagie Place in Pennsylvania
I need to tell you about the best bologna sandwich I've ever had. I realize that most people don't have specific memories about bologna sandwiches...or even specific feelings about bologna sandwiches...but years later I can tell you every delicious detail about that sandwich. It was that good.
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in Feast
A Revised History Of Old Junk
I have a secret. For generations, the women in my family have shared a strange and mystical gift; an ancient power so rare and so magical that we scarcely ever speak about it in polite company. Through out the ages this gift has proved to be both a blessing and a burden, and it is often gravely misunderstood by our loved ones.
By Jessica Conaway3 years ago in FYI