Mothers and Daughters

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You should still be here, but silence lingers; your laughter is a distant memory, a mischievous sense of humor, contagious and warm. Your joy spread easily, laughing until you cried at the antics of one of your sons. Miss the advice, even the unwanted, to hear your voice one more time. The hugs…tender, with a wisp of dark roast and cream. Love’s simple lessons and family tales. I share them now so we will never forget you or your love. Truth be told, I see you every day in the clouds, among the crowds, and in a child’s laughing face. I hear you whisper in the gentle breeze when aspens tremble and buntings sing. You are not where you were, but you are everywhere I am. I find you in the hush amid heartbeats, inside the stillness before sunrise, and in the silent moments of my journey; I feel your presence.

One More Ride

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Stroking Beau’s head, I whispered to my best friend, “The day is all ours.” I inhaled his warm, musky scent, which blended with earth and hay, and finally relaxed, hoping moments like this could last forever. My responsibilities suddenly found their way to the back burner. This morning, I would enjoy a ride with my incredible beauty.

Beau, a breathtaking combination of Arabian and Quarter horse, glistened in the morning sun. He was all black, including his long mane and tail, except for the white blaze on his nose and his four white socks. He pawed the ground, and I laughed. He was ready to hit the country roads and backtrails, too. It was a short ride to Brush Hollow, and we had the whole day to ourselves.

I gathered the reins and quickly placed one foot in the stirrup and swung myself into the saddle, my body moving without hesitation, without pain, without thought. Beau knew where we were heading and turned out of the yard and onto the road. His strength and calm always gave me the right amount of confidence.  Life always felt right when moving along in the saddle with my favorite companion. Even on those days I worked in the garden, Beau would snicker, letting me know he wanted out of his corral.  He followed me around like a puppy, enjoying our closeness as much as I did. I never worried about him running off; he always stayed close, even when I happened to fall off and needed him to wait. We had an unspoken trust. Beau was more than just a horse; he was my anchor, my friend, and my sense of freedom.

As the asphalt turned into dirt roads, we began to canter towards the lake. The spring day offered a cloudless blue sky, and the smell of pinyon and juniper trees and sun-warmed earth filled the air. Cows grazed in green pastures, and occasional moo drifted near us. Spring calves jumped and ran, and made me smile at their antics.

Once we passed the cows, I nudged Beau into a run, wanting to get to Brush Hollow as quickly as possible. The wind whipped my hair, his mane, and tail. It felt like we were flying along that dusty road.

Time slowed and stretched before us, almost standing still as we galloped towards the lake. Dust kicked up behind us while Beau ran as if he could not arrive at our trails soon enough. All thoughts of work and bills dissolved; no future, no past, just this one perfect moment with Beau, a moment I didn’t yet know I would return to again and again. It was quiet understanding, knowing that this day was precious, and I was full of gratitude.

Once we arrived at our familiar path, Beau naturally slowed to a walk, the rhythm of his hooves softening along the trail. The leaves of the cottonwood trees rustled in the wind. A stillness and peace settled in as we began our trek along the path. This rider felt whole, unbroken, and untouched by time. Silence ended when we disturbed a flock of Pinyon Jays. Their cries warned others of our arrival, as if the land itself needed to speak before everything changed. The peace felt too complete, too perfect, the kind that only exists when memory takes over.

And then it happened. The weight of this body refused to move as it once did. Pain returned, along with the heartache and realization that Beau was gone. Opening my eyes, I blinked.  My cane rested next to my nightstand. Slowly, I realized I dreamed of him again.  Sitting up in bed, I winced as pain spread through my back. Grief rested for a moment, as a single tear moved down my cheek. For one lone moment, I allowed the emotional ache of knowing what was lost and could never be again. But I quickly pushed it away, only allowing the pain to last for an instant. For I had lived those perfect moments with Beau, and for that, I would always be grateful.

Prompt: For the first prompt of the 2025 challenge (drum roll, please!): Write a story based on the idea “if you could have just one more.”

I Hated Ants!

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When I was a toddler, I lived in Hotchkiss, Colorado, my Momma’s hometown. It was a close-knit little town where everyone knew each other, and neighbors weren’t strangers; they were part of daily life.

During that time, we lived on Bridge Street, one of the town’s main thoroughfares, next door to a mechanic. Most weekends, he and his friends could be found in his garage, working on cars, swapping stories, and filling the air with the sounds of engines and laughter. But it also had a dark side. Soon,that garage became the unlikely ground zero for some of my earliest toddler mischief.

For reasons no one could quite explain, his garage attracted ants; legions of them. It was probably due to spilled soda, leftover lunches, or some mysterious automotive potion that lured the insects inside. Each day, the ants formed a formidable marching line, streaming up the driveway and straight into the open garage like a tiny invading army. Every day, the mechanic and his friends could be seen stomping on the relentless invasion, swatting and muttering their exasperated war cry: “Damn ants.”

According to Momma, it didn’t take long for me to follow suit.

My parents and grandparents often witnessed their curly-haired girl out on the sidewalk, stomping and jumping with fierce determination, pointing at the pavement, and screaming at the top of her lungs, “Damn ants!” My conviction and my performance caught the attention of passing neighbors and the men in the garage. My audience laughed, amused by my antics. The passing admiration only fueled my enthusiasm. My daily performances grew louder, more dramatic, and more frequent. While slightly amused, my parents didn’t want their oldest child loudly cursing in front of all the neighbors, so they tried to make light of the situation. Hoping against hope, my loud hijinks and daily productions would quickly disappear. I can’t really blame them; my first curse words weren’t exactly a milestone they wanted to celebrate.

As if that weren’t enough, I soon developed another “dirty” habit: I liked to eat soil.

The moment Momma turned her back, I would find a corner of ground, dig in with my little hands, and satisfy my strange new craving. She would scoop me up, carry me inside, wash my face, and carefully clean my mouth with a wet washcloth, an experience I did not enjoy. Still, as moms everywhere do, she found a simple and brilliant solution. Calmly, she told me that ants lived in the dirt.

Her story worked.

Momma said my reaction was instantaneous and theatrical. My face, she said, showed shock and total revulsion. Once I knew that ants lived in the dirt, my hankering for all things earth and loam disappeared. My deep-rooted disgust for ants crushed my cravings and cured my strange fondness for soil, and just like that, the dirt-munching phase ended.

Time passed, and as Christmas approached, a package arrived from my mom’s sister, Barb. She had wrapped a gift for her niece and topped it with an adorable tag featuring a rosy-cheeked Santa.

But there was a problem. She signed it: Love Aunt Barb.

To a toddler who hated ants with an absolute passion, “aunt” and “ant” sounded like the same repulsive critter.

Momma said that when she told me the present was from my aunt, I made a disgusted face, hurled the package across the room, and shouted with full conviction, “Damn ants!” It took a great deal of convincing to get me to finally open my Christmas present, and even more effort to explain the difference between an aunt and an ant, a concept that took time to fully understand.

Now, remembering those stories still makes me smile. I always loved the tales Momma shared about my early years, especially the ones filled with humor and just the right amount of shenanigans. She even saved that little Santa gift tag, now safely tucked away in a box of Christmas treasures. It’s a sweet keepsake and a reminder of family stories, childhood misunderstandings, and how the smallest moments often become the most beloved memories.

The Christmas Doll

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant4 Comments
Daily writing prompt
Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?
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One afternoon, while I was playing with a neighbor, she proudly showed me a gift she had received, a Madame Alexander Pussy Cat doll. To my eight-year-old eyes, she was the most beautiful baby doll I had ever seen. She looked almost real. Her cheeks were chubby and rosy, her little arms and legs were soft and round, and tiny dimples marked her knees. Her eyes opened and closed, and when you tipped her just right, she said mama. She was perfect. I gushed over her, telling my friend Kim how beautiful she was and how I couldn’t wait to go home and tell my mom about her.

That excitement didn’t last long. Kim’s mother overheard our conversation and explained that the doll was very expensive and that my family could not afford such a luxury. I remember the sting of disappointment, but even at that young age, I understood something important. Family mattered more than material things. My mom always found ways to make our childhood feel special and magical, even without expensive gifts. What she gave us, love, attention, and imagination, was worth far more than any doll.

But moms have a way of creating their own quiet magic.

I’m not sure how my mother found out that I wanted that doll, but somehow she did. Without a word to me, she asked my dad to take her to a nearby toy store that carried Madame Alexander dolls. There, she put my doll, who would later be named Amy, on layaway. Month after month, she faithfully made payments until the doll was paid for in full. It was a labor of love I never noticed at the time.

On Christmas morning, I tore open my gift and froze. There she was, my very own Pussy Cat doll. I remember holding her close, hardly able to believe she was really mine. In that moment, I felt only the magic, not the sacrifice, planning, or quiet determination that had worked behind the scenes. Amy became an instant treasure, one that stayed with me through the years.

As an adult, I now understand what that gift truly represented. My mother wanted her only daughter to have something special that Christmas, and she was willing to sacrifice to make it happen. My Momma was, and always will be, a miracle worker in my eyes.

I still have my little Amy doll to this day, a reminder that she was never just a toy, but a symbol of my mother’s deep devotion. That little doll represents the kind of Christmas magic only a mother’s love can create.

Acceptance

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Daily writing prompt
What is the greatest gift someone could give you?
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Acceptance

Gifts come in all forms, yet if I were to receive the perfect gift, it would be acceptance. To be accepted without judgment would truly feel heaven-sent. Acceptance is the quiet reassurance that you are enough just as you are, without needing to prove, hide, or explain yourself.

Acceptance offers the receiver the ability to breathe freely and feel comfortable among others, without the fear of criticism or reproof. It is an understanding that none of us are perfect, and that those who care for us act with good intentions, hoping for the best in our lives. When someone accepts you fully, they acknowledge your strengths, your flaws, your history, and your hopes, and they choose to stand beside you anyway.

Acceptance means knowing you belong, imperfections and all. It offers hope, peace, and unconditional love. It frees you from the weight of jealousy, comparison, or the irrational worries that others may misunderstand you. The people who offer this gift truly understand you. They know your heart is good, and they recognize that you genuinely want the best for them as well.

Acceptance strengthens family ties and deepens friendships. It brings security, trust, and emotional safety into relationships. When you know you are accepted, you can show up as yourself, without masks, without fear, because you are valued simply for being who you are.

This gift bonds people together and creates joy in every interaction. It fosters patience, kindness, and compassion. Acceptance is thoughtful, grounding, and profoundly meaningful. It is, without question, the perfect present for anyone who wishes to live a life rooted in peace, love, and understanding.

My College Years

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Daily writing prompt
What colleges have you attended?
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Over the years, I have attended three colleges: Pueblo Community College, the University of Southern Colorado, and Adams State University. Each institution provided me with a valuable learning experience and opened doors to new opportunities.

Here is a brief tale of my college experiences.

A Lifetime of Learning

Echoes of Laughter

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I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment I arrived, there was a feeling, something warm and unmistakable, that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of the TV as Uncle Roger watched his favorite news channel. 

Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too, playfully so, never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra hug, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.

Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.

Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other through humor layered with heart and adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.

Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full, comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did; I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.

Loving visits with Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger became memories I carry with me still, not as distant recollections, but as living reminders of what matters most. Their home taught me that laughter can be a form of love, that kindness often arrives wrapped in humor, and that joy is something we create for one another. Long after the visits ended, the feeling of being with them remained, steady and warm, a quiet inheritance I continue to hold close.

I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment we arrived, there was a feeling—something warm and unmistakable—that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of conversation already in motion. You never had to knock long. The door opened quickly, usually mid-laugh, as if joy itself had been waiting for us.

Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too—playfully so—never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra cookie placed on a plate, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.

Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. He loved telling stories—stories that wandered, grew larger, and became funnier with every retelling. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.

Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other—humor layered with heart, adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.

Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full—comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did—I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.

Loving visits with them became memories I carry with me still—treasures from a life rich with connection, warmth, and joy.

Whispers of the Redwoods

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Daily writing prompt
Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?
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The first time I entered a forest of towering redwoods, it felt like stepping into another world, where time moved slowly and the trees whispered ancient secrets. My first camping experience occurred in fourth grade with my Girl Scout troop. Our leader, Mrs. Gardner, took me and three friends—Kim Regan (Murphy), Rene Gardner, and Krissie Earl—to Big Basin in the Santa Cruz Mountains for a tent camping adventure. The first night was chilly and rainy, but the weather did not dampen my spirits. It was my first encounter with the redwoods, and I found the place magical. The fresh scent of pine and damp earth greeted us upon arrival, and the towering trees stretched endlessly toward the sky.

Big Basin Redwoods State Park, established in 1902, is California’s oldest state park. The ancient redwoods there are thousands of years old, some predating the pyramids. Walking among them made me feel both tiny and awed by nature’s power and patience.

I shared a tent with Kim, and we were literally washed out that first night when a small stream ran through the middle of our tent. Soaked and shivering, we sought refuge in Mrs. Gardner’s tent for the rest of the night, listening to the rain patter on the canvas and the wind rustle the massive trees outside. Despite the soggy start, the forest quickly captured my heart.

The trees were incredible. On the second day, we visited the ranger’s headquarters and nature center, where rangers taught us about the local wildlife and the trees. We learned about various plants, the foxes and raccoons that inhabited the forest, and how the redwoods had survived for thousands of years. We even saw a tree ring from a redwood that had lived before Christ was born—a humbling reminder of nature’s grandeur and the passage of time.

Once, the Grizzly Bear roamed the forest, but the ranger explained that they were wiped out during the settlers’ earlier arrival. If a bear attacked livestock or people, hunters would kill at least five bears in the area to ensure they had eliminated the attacking bear.

Later, we hiked the Trail of Giants, marveling at the towering trees and the quiet majesty of the forest. I ran my hands along the rough, reddish bark, looked up at branches disappearing into the clouds, and felt the soft crunch of needles under my boots. The experience left a lasting impression on me. In the morning, fog enveloped the area, dew settled on spiderwebs, and tiny streams reflected sunlight like ribbons of silver, making the forest appear magical and otherworldly. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I couldn’t wait to return.

Although I have visited many places since then, Big Basin is one destination I would return to repeatedly. The damp ground smelled earthy, and the air was so fresh and clean it felt like drinking pure water. The tall canopy of trees shaded the forest, allowing slivers of sunlight to peek through the branches, casting a soft, golden glow. Gentle winds rocked the trees, creating a soothing lullaby at night that helped tired campers fall asleep quickly, while the occasional owl hoot or distant rustle of wildlife reminded us we were guests in a living, breathing world.

Even now, years later, whenever I think of Big Basin, I feel a deep pull to return. It is more than a forest; it is a timeless sanctuary that leaves a mark on your heart, one towering tree, one soft breeze, and one magical morning at a time.