Day # 3 -He ain’t heavy

By Cari Cunningham (photographer)
“What We Carry” By Cari Cunningham (photographer)

It seems we are either being carried or carrying something.  A wallet, yesterday, purse, groceries, grudge, love, resentment, a baby, cross.

We carry so much with ever asking why?  Or what am I really carrying here?

So today let’s make this simple.  Write about what you carry.  Metaphorical or Literal.  Have fun with it, write about where you are taking this (these) thing(s).  Why are you carrying it?  As you get ready to carry that laptop somewhere nice and comfortable to sit and pound a key or two, i’ll give you my offering on this one, and a few lines from students.


Sara Lopez-I carry the broken pieces of my heart in a snack bag.

Brian King-I carry a God like presence that radiates through all time.

Sabrina Guttierrez- I carry boulders in my shoes.


Mother’s Day Paid


Once I crowned Mother Mary,

with baby’s breath, and mini peace roses

the color of blushing cheeks

woven with satin ribbons

of dove white and olive-green.


That Friday, as school

was winding down

my saddle shoed feet,

rolled socks,

plaid Catholic School skirt


through the church garden

past blooming bell flowers

waiting to bust open

for a bee’s pleasure,

in a rhythmic strut

to “Hail, Holy Queen”


My palms up

nothing to hide

nothing to gain

nothing to lose

just a silk pillow

and it’s royal content.

I glowed—halo strong.


Then Gracie Galindo “whispered”

Her mother paid for this.

No one would have picked her.

My mother said so,

and she counts the collection baskets.


I smiled, pretending my heart was deaf

lifting the crown above the veiled Mary

praying she was deaf.

resting the crown’s ribbons over her ears.


School day done,

I waited for two hours by the bell flowers,

placing their magenta bodies

between my thumb and forefinger

and squeezed,

forcing each to cry out with a pop,

while I wondered

if anyone would care

if Gracie tumble-down

the school back stairs


My mother picked me up,

2 hours late,

grumbling nothing in this life comes free,

not even a mother’s love



Visit Denise’s Website here.

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