Katherine
Mahon
Holmes
writes

With Father’s Day approaching, I’ve been thinking about dads. They seem to be described as either present and wonderful or absent, with varying degrees of disappointment. My dad was one of the wonderful ones. When I was little, I had a best friend named Kathy who lived next door. Not next door, the way we think of it here in rural Maine. This was on Long Island, New York, where the houses lined a long street, separated by driveways. Backyards and the street were where we pla

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?

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

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

“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