Katherine
Mahon
Holmes
writes

This Saturday, friends and family will gather at a park in Holden, Massachusetts, at a bench that honors my late friend, Andrew Abrams. This morning, while flipping through an old writing journal, I stumbled upon something I had started writing about him. The timing felt just like Andy. A gentle nudge. Don’t forget. You started writing this. Andy and I met several years ago in an online memoir writing class. We were both working on our books, and this writing group became dee

I recently watched “The Four Seasons” and found myself unexpectedly identifying with the woman who had become, perhaps, a little fixated on a toddler. Which led me to an uncomfortable question: Am I baby crazy?

The large box of my memoir arrived yesterday. I was on my way out to see a client when it was delivered. And while this is the third attempt at the grand opening of my self-published book, this time I know the curtain is rising on the real thing. The next morning, the box still sits on my coffee table, unopened. Like a birthday present waiting for the real day. Waiting until I can be fully present for what feels like the true first shipment. The one I can feel proud of. The o

Forsythia. I love the name. I love saying it. Forsythia. It almost sings when you say it out loud–like “Maria” in the West Side Story song. 🎶Forsy–thia…and suddenly the name will never be the same to me.🎶 Right now, in Down East Maine, the forsythia are in their full expression. What followed was greener grass that just yesterday seemed patchy brown. Today, the buds on the trees outside my window have popped rusty reds. Lime greens will peak soon-those trees still hold ti

It’s 4 a.m. I’m standing in front of the internal light of the microwave, holding Ri, gently swaying to keep her asleep while my coffee mug heats, the one hot dark roast will be dripping into in just a couple of seconds. Her mama told me she is teething again, so the last few nights have been interrupted by pain. Standing, swaying, waiting, mindful of her rhythm, I’m remembering why thirty-something years ago, Liz and Andrew asked me to be Jake’s godmother. “You’re good with

As I rose at my regular 4 a.m. hour (it was actually more like 3:40 🙄), in the bathroom mirror I caught a glimpse of myself. My hair has gotten longer—like my adult daughter’s hair. Last night, before bed, in front of this same mirror, I was able to put my hair up high in a messy bun, the way she’s done with her hair forever. Her beautiful blonde hair, with natural lowlights, has not been short since the fifth or sixth grade (which was also just as beautiful on her). So she

This morning, I handed her another teddy bear graham cracker. It dances a wobbly performance in her sweet little fingers—then it’s popped into her mouth, crunched up by her back teeth, she’s just discovered. Later, I was listening to an interview with Jon Stewart and Graham Plattner, who is running for the Maine State Senate. Somewhere between the two, the graham cracker and the interview, my brain made one of those connections that don’t really matter, except that it does. W

My friend, who is more than a friend, is my chosen neighbor. My chosen family. A driveway and a small hill sit between us. An easy ninety-second walk. She was supposed to turn a large shed into an office for her counseling practice. That was the plan. We had it placed on my land during a time when plans still felt like something you could count on. But life moved faster than that. The pandemic shifted everything. She skipped right past the office and built herself a home. Jus

Every morning, my early-rising friend texts me. Or I text her. We don’t plan it. We just both know one of us is awake before most normal people. If I had to be up at 4 a.m. to catch an early flight, I’d think that was so incredibly early—like most people do. I remember a seventh-grade history teacher—hauntingly tall, with overapplied makeup that made her look like a clown, the unsettling kind. She told us she got up at 4 a.m.—that just made her seem even weirder And now— My p

For a long time, I’ve been writing about what I’ve lost. Lately, I haven’t felt the pull to write about it— but nothing else has come. I wake up early, like I always do. Coffee in hand, I stand at the window. I see a single deer on the lawn, so calm, like the morning— and feel there’s a story there, I just don’t have the words. Grief—and the question when will this be over—felt like a splintered sign in a dusty old ghost town outside a deserted saloon, hanging loose, rattling

You don't always know what you'll need after someone dies. Sometimes, it's a place that holds you.

This morning felt lighter. The memoir, finally done. Off my hands, off my mind, and out in the world, no longer mine. Something written, worked on, and tweaked for the last six years—sometimes setting it aside for months when I couldn’t find the arc, and sometimes just tired of my own writing... Waking up at 4 am like always—when it’s still dark and peaceful. Quiet. Nothing had changed, really. The coffee was the same. The light of day hadn’t come in yet. The house held that

Somewhere between plastic eggs and a quiet church, Easter begins to make sense to me.

If you know—and have a bit of a relationship with—your very own ChatGPT (which sounds an awful lot like ChatGBT, so don’t make the same mistake I did and talk about ChatGBT with your friends—because eventually someone will hear that B and correct you), you will get this. My therapist—an old transplant to this Maine county, like me—is also a former occupational therapist, also like me. She worked in the same school system, just at a different time, and for a short while was th

This morning I resumed my meditation practice. I sat myself down on my meditation pillow, which has been kindly waiting for me for too long. Months. I listened to a Buddha lesson as my meditation. It’s a new app. I know. I know. Not exactly meditation. But I have to ease back into it. I have the kind of energy where, when I start something, I’m all in. I’m enthusiastic. My mind is present. I have every intention of seeing whatever it is through. And when the project or discip

My terrible memory could be from my ADHD, or—God help me—signs of early dementia, or, like a lot of people in their sixties who say they can’t even remember where they left their keys five minutes ago, maybe it’s just an age thing. There are long stretches of my life I don’t remember clearly. High school, especially, exists more as a feeling than a series of events. Faces blur. Years collapse. When I reach for details, my mind offers very little in return. Those years were ab

“Ha! #47. That was a good one,” we’d laugh. That is one of the jokes my siblings and I throw out when we surround a kitchen island, sharing stories. We loved and still do, telling and listening to our repeated funny stories, especially if a newcomer enters the circle. But if it were just us, we’d joke we’d only have to say a number, like 47, as if we all knew what story it was and would all chuckle. Yesterday, I checked in by text with an old friend I had not spoken with in

Every Christmas season, when I get to wrapping presents, a 35-year-old memory returns. It was the first December of my first real career job out of college, which I'd started the previous summer. What I thought was my dream job turned out to be a nightmare. And all I wanted to do was work at Macy’s in the wrapping department—a very specific, daily daydream. Just throw away four years of a bachelor's degree and the responsibility of paying back student loans for a happy, Chris

Rocky Boat There are days when my insides just feel unsettled. Ungrounded. If I were a boat, it would be on a day when the waves were choppy. The sky, gray. No rhyme or reason for this kind of weather. It catches me off guard. So my footing is off. It’s scary. My throat is tight because I am acutely aware I am weathering a storm without my right-hand person. I am acutely aware I am weathering it alone. There are no tools in my grief-repairing toolbox to fix this. I just have

I changed the light bulb in the bathroom exhaust fan with my four-year-old granddaughter, Chloe. We visited the bathroom several times today. First, she had to go pee, so we went to the bathroom together for that. Then a while later, I had to. The door was not fully closed. So, in came Chloe and then the dog. Her little hands don’t quite reach the faucet so she used the step ladder I had folded against the wall. She likes that little step ladder. She uses it often in the kitc