DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

Grey, John

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 2 Article 39
Spring 5-1-2018
The Last Days of the Loneliest Woman
John Grey
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Grey, John (2018) "The Last Days of the Loneliest Woman," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 2 , Article 39.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss2/39
Spring 201845
The Last Days of  the Loneliest Woman
The loneliest woman 
plays solitaire in the kitchen
of her small three room apartment
while sipping hot tea
and listening to talk radio.
 
But she always dresses well,
right down to her clean underwear
because, in case she’s ever found dead,
she wants to look her best.
 
Of course, she knows she 
won’t be found right away.
There’s never much mail in her box
and it could be a month or more
before it was filled to a suspicious amount.
 
But she knows nothing 
about decomposing bodies,
the last gasp of body functions.
As far as she’s concerned,
she’ll be pleasant-looking and clean.
That’s all she’s ever asked of herself.
 
For now, she gets by 
on occasional wins at her cards,
that hot tea,
and someone calling in on the radio
with an opinion she shares.
 
Playing and sipping and listening,
there are times she’s unaware
that she’s lonely.
In the days to come,
with any luck,
she won’t even know she’s dead.
-John Grey“Sewing Drawer”
Molly Miklosz
Colored Pencil
1
Grey: The Last Days of the Loneliest Woman
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018


English

The Last Days of the Loneliest Woman

Bressler, M.J.

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 2 Article 40
Spring 5-1-2018
Love Affair
M.J. Bressler
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Bressler, M.J. (2018) "Love Affair," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 2 , Article 40.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss2/40
Prairie Light Review 46
Love Affair
With my eyes closed
I remember
the taste of salt
upon your flesh.
The spicy scents
of your cologne
entice my mouth
with what’s to come.
 
Your lips
upon my tongue
were real.
Placing
your essence
in my memory
you are
real, as the soil
in which you grew.
 
With my eyes closed
I can still remember the taste
of your heavenly juices
dribbling down my chin.
Will I ever
know you again
my beloved
Tomato?
-M.J Bressler
1
Bressler: Love Affair
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018


Love Affair

Center, Julie P.

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 2 Article 50
Spring 5-1-2018
When Things Fall Apart, Can We Keep Going?
Julie P. Center
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Center, Julie P. (2018) "When Things Fall Apart, Can We Keep Going?," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 2 , Article 50.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss2/50
Spring 201859
When Things Fall Apart, Can We Keep Going?
 We land at The Quiet Cup, our neighborhood’s small coffee shop 
that connects to the ice-cream parlor by a short hallway. Both shops serve as 
the local hangout and are infected with young teens at night. They don’t lick 
ice-cream cones or sip on brewing beans but instead clutter the sidewalks 
and benches. It’s our favorite place to go in the morning when it’s empty, but 
now my parents shuffle in their seats as a small crowd forms on this late July 
afternoon.
 My mother orders her usual small caffè latte, sprinkling cinnamon on 
top. But my dad boasts, “I can get just coffee here. That’s all I want. No fancy 
stuff. No foam. No mocha. No bullshit. Just black for me.” And about five 
sugars he’s tapped into his cup, leaving little crystal remains on the table. 
Today, he’s dyed his hair chestnut brown, and I struggle to find any remnant 
of the salty mane my 60-year-old father has had for the past decade. He’s 
dressed in a navy suit with a gray tie, wider than it should be and adorned 
with an art deco design. Where his moustache should be suddenly appears 
a limp upper lip that has been hiding for 40 years. I stare at the crookedness 
forming above his mouth each time he talks.
 “I’m not getting hired because I’m too old. It was your brother’s 
idea.” My brother Elias is a 32-year-old sales consultant. He trains his clients 
to rip people off and is paid $100,000-a-year for it. Dad has been Elias’s new 
project. “Do I look any younger?” he asks, pushing the sugar crystals onto 
the floor, sneaking a glance to notice my expression. My mom narrows her 
light green eyes, signaling a warning to omit laughter. After a pause, I man-
age to say, “You’ve taken off at least ten years.” He sighs and smiles, satis-
fied. 
 An hour from now, Dad will be at his third interview of the month. 
He shows me his revised resume. He has tried to mask his 40 years of expe-
rience working for AT&T by leaving drastic gaps in hopes that he will appear 
younger. He has been a technician, a manager, a trainer. But, when the com-
pany suffered severe lay-offs last year, Dad took a forced retirement, leaving 
his $55,000-a-year position as Benefits Coordinator. Today, he’s hoping to be 
hired at a local motor club, for $8.25 an hour.
 My mom warns, “Eugene, didn’t the doctors say to cut out caffeine? 
For your medicine to work?” When she speaks, even her questions contain 
an order. Her raven hair forms like a football helmet around her ashen face, 
1
Center: When Things Fall Apart, Can We Keep Going?
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018
Prairie Light Review 60
making her look more like 70 than her 63 years. She has neverminded look-
ing older than my father, but with his new look, she sits restlessly next to him.
 “I don’t care!” he tells my mom as he loosens his tie. “I need my 
coffee. The real stuff, not that decaffeinated shit you make at home. And my 
shaking’s never gonna stop anyway.” My mom abruptly stands up and walks 
to the side counter, powdering her cup with more cinnamon. My dad has a 
genetic hand tremor that has been getting increasingly worse with age. Two 
times a day, he takes a medication used for Parkinson’s disease, though he 
hasn’t yet been given that diagnosis. His shaking is so bad Mom has to fill 
out all paperwork and sign his name for him.
 “Dad, you have to work on this,” I take Mom’s side. “You can’t just 
sit around and do nothing about it.” He moves his glasses up as he pinches 
the corners of his nose, squeezing his murky blue eyes closed tight. He con-
centrates on the darkness, combating the tears that might come. Finally he 
speaks, his words slow and deliberate, wanting me to take in every word.
 He squeezes my arm to jolt my focus. “Look, I don’t want…anyone 
telling me their … solutions. I know you’re both right, but I don’t want any 
other person’s…version of what’s right. I. Want. My. Own. Version.” His voice 
is loud and shaking, and the other patrons in the quaint coffeehouse start to 
stare, so we decide to leave.
 As we drive away, my mom tries again. “Eugene, you know you’re 
happier when you’ve exercised and cut out caffeine. Can’t you just try?”
 “You know, I can’t stand this!” Dad bellows, slamming his fists on his 
knees. In a hushed tone, hoping to forfeit a fight, Mom whispers, “You can’t 
ever be happy.” My dad is silent. As I drive, I stare at my dad’s eyes through 
the rearview mirror. I look through his glasses, past the glare. I squint my own 
eyes and now see the gray specks that veil his irises’ blue.
 There is a buzzing I hear, the humming of the engine making the car 
run away home. We say nothing. Mom is staring out her window, opening it a 
crack to let her cigarette smoke escape. I notice her eyes through the win-
dow, their reflection still a light green. When I pull into our driveway, I wait 
for something to keep me there. I turn off the car engine. Dad takes a deep 
breath, inhaling Mom’s smoke. His cough is raspy.
---
 It’s been a month. Dad has been working in the motor club’s noisy 
call station, filled with about 80 other employees. On his corner cubicle’s 
desk, he has a desk calendar with pictures from Saturday Evening Post and 
a small battery-operated clock. The thing he likes best about his new job is 
that his cubicle is right by the window.  The thing he likes least about his new 
2
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 40, No. 2 [2018], Art. 50
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss2/50
Spring 201861
job is everything else.
 My mom and I meet him at The Quiet Cup, and my dad orders his 
“real” black coffee again. He has started growing out his hair, specks of white 
sneaking out at the roots. Already his moustache is back, completing his 
upper lip. But his eyes still look the same behind his glasses. Local students 
started school this week, so Mom sits comfortably next to me. She forgoes 
ordering anything today.
 My dad had another interview this morning, this time for a party sup-
ply company’s admin office. “How did it go?” I hesitantly force a smile on my 
face, trying to make it easier for him to tell me.
 “My hands shook so goddamn much it took me an hour to fill out the 
forms. They already had the same information from my resume.” My mom 
shifts in her seat, wishing she had something to sip on to distract her. Her 
green eyes gaze at the concentric circles my dad’s coffee has created on the 
table.
         “Got any other interviews coming up?” I ask. 
         “Not a one. But I’ve gotten used to the motor club. I don’t like it, but 
I know I can do it for now until something else comes along.”
 “Well, that’s good…isn’t it?” I tilt my head like a dog who doesn’t 
understand the command.
 He slowly answers without looking at me, as if he has rehearsed this 
for a while and wants to get each word right. I hear my brother’s voice when 
Dad says, “Energy spent worrying about a job is useless. The motor club is 
not my future. I have other goals I can achieve.”
 He takes his glasses off and slowly wipes them on his tie, this time 
burgundy to go with his white button-down dress shirt. Without the smudg-
es, his eyes change to a pale blue. Finally, his voice comes back and asks, 
“What if that was it, you know? What if that was my only chance to get a re-
spectable, well-paying job?” I want to encourage him to not give up, but he 
interrupts the thought. “Look, I make eight bucks an hour, and my pension’s 
going down every year. I can’t afford a new car; I can’t afford anything. I’m 60 
years old. What do I have to show for it?”
 My mom looks up from the table. “Look, Eugene, no matter what 
job you have, you will never be satisfied. It’s not like how it used to be. When 
we were in our 20s, living in a small apartment in Skokie, you made $3.15 an 
hour.”
 “Yeah, but I would’ve done that job for free. It was fun.”
 “It was fun because we were young and stupid. It’s just a job. And 
the motor club is just a job. It doesn’t define you.”
3
Center: When Things Fall Apart, Can We Keep Going?
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018
Prairie Light Review 62
 My dad stands up, towering over us as we sit crouched in our chairs. 
He turns to me. “Would you like something else to drink?”
 “Uh, sure. Another green tea.” I stare at my mother, who has resort-
ed to picking up a newspaper that a former patron left behind. She purses 
her lips as she reads. When she blinks, I notice her eyes aren’t green at all. 
They are hazel, more amber than green, reflecting the blouse she is wearing 
or eye shadow she has on. Today, she is wearing a red t-shirt, and her face is 
clean of makeup.
 I go up to the counter to check on my dad, with the request for my 
tea to be topped with some ice. The cashier sets down the two drinks and 
rings my dad up. $8.25. My dad uncreases his wallet, lifts out a $10 bill, and 
hands it to the cashier. He cherishes the $1.75 he receives as change.
-Julie P. Center
“Self  Portrait 2018”
Hannah Davis
Photography
4
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 40, No. 2 [2018], Art. 50
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss2/50


When Things Fall Apart, Can We Keep Going?

This poster presents the mission and the goals of a dedicated OER community of practice at Harper College

Miller, Cindy

Harper College—OER Community of Practice 
Purpose:  
The purpose of the Open Educational Resources (OER) Community of Practice (CoP) is to support faculty and staff efforts to reduce the costs associated with textbooks and course 
materials while maintaining high quality course design and instruction for students.  This Community of Practice is focused on finding and creating Open Education Resources 
(OER). Priority will be given to equity considerations for our students. Tools to overcome the barrier of using OER materials will be facilitated by means of adopting, adapting, and 
authoring. 
COP Members: Paula Akialis, Health Information Technology; Dave Braunschweig, Career and Technical Programs; Kimberly Fournier, Resources for Learning; Mary Hood, Health Careers; Judy Kaplow, Liberal Arts;  
Jennifer Lau-Bond, Resources for Learning; Cindy Miller, Career and Technical Programs; Elizabeth Pagenkopf, Health Careers; Kimberley Polly, Math & Science; Kathleen Sachs, Liberal Arts. 
Measures of Goal Achievement: 
 Assess faculty participation and reduction of textbook costs 
 Develop a webpage of OER resources for faculty, that lists strategies 
in finding OER sources 
 Analyze library journal subscriptions (cost-per-use), which will inform 
future spending, cancellations and promote Open Access  
 Propose a graduate-level OER faculty development course 
 Attend the Illinois OER Summit, synthesize learning, and share find-
ings and resources with Harper faculty  
Goals of the Community of Practice 
Goal 1 - 
Increase faculty and staff awareness of OER resources to reduce stu-
dent costs associated with textbooks through sharing OER best  
practices on campus and supporting the OER strategic plan. 
Goal 2 - 
Develop an informational webpage of OER resources for faculty on 
what we have learned in our CoP on how to find OER sources. These 
shared OER resources can be included as our CoP artifact on the 
http://harper-academy.net/open-educational-resources/  website. 
 
Goal 3 - 
Pursue the development of an OER GEC course. 
 
Goal 4 - 
Analyze library journal subscriptions (cost-per-use), which will inform 
future spending, cancellations and promote Open Access and assist 
faculty and staff.  
 
Reasons to Form OER COP? 
Concerns: 
 Students who cannot afford textbooks and course 
materials. Identify OER printed or printable  
alternatives. 
 Maintain support for academic freedom so  
instructors are able to choose the resources they 
believe are best for their courses and students. 
 
Searching for Alternative to Enhance Teaching: 
 Greater flexibility in course materials 
 Learner-centered content and approach 
 More thorough evaluation and selection of  
materials requirements 
 Enhanced collaboration within disciplines 
 Knowledge of / experience with creating free and 
open content 
 Enhanced understanding of content licensing 
Research shows: 
 
A typical college student 
spends $600 - $1,200 per year 
on books and supplies.  
 
At these rates, reducing or  
eliminating textbook costs 
could be the equivalent of  
giving  Harper  students their 
fourth semester free! 


Poster Session: OER Community of Practice

Alford, Bonniejean

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 41 | Number 1 Article 13
Fall 12-1-2018
Butterfly of Time
Bonniejean Alford
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Alford, Bonniejean (2018) "Butterfly of Time," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 41 : No. 1 , Article 13.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol41/iss1/13
Butterfly of Time
The weight of life releases
as the end of the journey arrives
Emotion encapsulates the heart
connecting all of time in one moment
then and now converged
The emotion of it all overwhelms
let the tears fall as they must
Existence slows
deep breath in, deep breath out
And yet again
life remains transformed
Tomorrows shaped by all the yesterdays
nestled within the confines of earthly constraint
the soul ever waiting
Now, ready to emerge into new life
the entire being flutters
heavenly gardens welcome eternity
Bonniejean Alford
Butterfly MoonSusan Trestrail
Fall 2018 Journal .indd   12 1/3/19   4:35 PM
1
Alford: Butterfly of Time
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018


Butterfly of Time

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 41 | Number 1 Article 24
Fall 12-1-2018
My Mother's Thunderstorm
Julie P. Center
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Center, Julie P. (2018) "My Mother's Thunderstorm," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 41 : No. 1 , Article 24.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol41/iss1/24
My Mother’s Thunderstorm 
  “We’re going to Ma’s special place.” When I am afraid of forgetting, I de-
cide the cemetery will remind me of my mom. It’s been a month since we’ve been 
there—a long time to hold in grief. 
 When my mom was alive, my daughter Zoey was just shy of two years 
old, with light golden wisps of hair and a gap in her front teeth. She couldn’t say 
much, but she called my mom what I called her—simply “Ma.” I am double that—
Ma Ma.“Is she home?” my daughter asks. She confuses Ma with her other grand-
mother, living in Nevada and on screen when we Skype every week. Now at four 
years old, her hair has become dark honey colored, and her teeth have narrowed, 
her speech still with a little-kid lisp. 
 “No, sweetie, remember? Ma, who used to live with Papa?” Zoey still 
calls my childhood home “PapaMa house,” though only one occupant is there now. 
“Oh,” Zoey seems to recall. “She’s up in the stars.” I sigh in relief. “That’s right.”
Our version of heaven is different from my mother’s. Catholicism with all its con-
troversies was defined for my mom when she was born Irish. For me, though, the 
religion’s trinity intertwines in my mind until it makes knots. A four year old can 
understand the sky and stars much better. 
 “But why? It’s so ba ba ba boring,” she moans. Zoey used to like going to 
the cemetery with me, back when she was free to run through the empty grass 
near my mother’s plot. Now, with her baby sister tagging along, she has to stand 
still to prevent a game of chase over the bumpy grass and into the road.
 “Well, because we need to go to her special place. I need to go, ok?” 
She blinks twice, unsure of the urgency in my voice. “Can we get her flowers?” 
Zoey picks out a fall collection of Spider mums, their burnt orange petals like 
tendrils. I don’t have the heart to tell her Ma despised these flowers, enraged when 
her own mother’s casket was blanketed with them despite the orders for small yel-
low Pompom mums, the kind that grew in her old backyard. I recall this memory 
fuzzy like a daydream. 
Fall 2018 Journal .indd   21 1/3/19   4:35 PM
1
Center: My Mother's Thunderstorm
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018
 As we round the corner to the cemetery, I notice the girls have fallen 
asleep. I sit idle for a while, staring at my late aunt’s towering Celtic cross, the 
only landmark for Mom’s flat marker. I am reminded how she was to be buried 
at Mount Carmel, hugged by her grandparents and surrounded by Al Capone and 
Cardinal Bernardin. Two days after my mom died, my dad was forced to buy a plot 
from my uncle at All Saints Cemetery because my mom’s casket simply would not 
fit in her original choice. She had wanted to rest under the shady tree with her 
grandma. Now, she burns in full sunshine with no one else around except my aunt. 
Not too far away from this spot, Haray Caray’s grave is littered with a stream of 
Cubs pennants. She’d like that too, I assure myself, and turn off the engine.
 I place Zoey, eyes still closed and arms clenched to her periwinkle blank-
ie, gently on the ground. I pick up Jovie, and she slowly nuzzles her head into my 
neck, still asleep. We stagger over to the gravesite. I pour water into the plastic 
vase that’s staked into the earth. I wake Jovie by having us all sit on the ground 
while I prune the chrysanthemums. Jovie, my mom’s last grandchild whom she 
never met, hops up and down on the marker. I ceremoniously place the flowers 
into the vase.   
 Zoey talks to the ground. “Hi, Ma. I miss you.” Her greeting prompts 
Jovie to wave at the embedded stone. My father’s name is etched to the left of my 
mother’s, birth date complete, followed by a dash, then blank—still room. My 
children are unaware of their ancestor underneath, bones buried by soil. 
 As a child, I dreaded the days my mom would drag me to the cemetery, 
thinking each step above would hurt those below. When I was five, my mom 
received the same call I had two years ago. Her face whitened like the ghost her 
mother was soon to become. I recall no dialogue. My memories include getting to 
skip school and receiving my first Rainbow Bright doll as a gift. 
 On the drive home from All Saints, the clouds descend and combine to 
form a black roof over our car. As we veer into the driveway, it starts to rain. All 
night, the storm is heavy, laden and loud. Zoey sleeps with my husband and me 
while Jovie snores soundly in her crib, not quite ready for a big girl bed. 
Fall 2018 Journal .indd   22 1/3/19   4:35 PM
2
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 41, No. 1 [2018], Art. 24
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol41/iss1/24
 “What was that?” Zoey questions the first bomb-like boom. She jumps up and 
pulls the blinds apart, peering outside as the wind smacks the trees.
“Well, Ma used to tell me it’s those up in the stars bowling. So...maybe it’s Ma.” Another 
clap of thunder. I hold her tighter in my arms. “See, she knocked all the pins down.” As if 
strings are attached to the sides of my mouth, I puppet a smile.
“Well actually, Zo, the sounds come from the air expanding from pressure,” my husband 
corrects me.
“Aaron, she’s four.”
“Never too early!” He winks at me. When Aaron looks up to the sky, he doesn’t think of 
my mother. He sees spheres of plasma and gaseous clouds of dust. 
“No, Daddy!” Zoey insists. “It’s Ma bowling.”
I look at my husband with narrowed eyes, but he doesn’t notice. “For now, let’s leave 
science out of it,” I plead with him. “She’s scared.” 
“Well, she needs to know,” he says. 
“And she will. Just not tonight.”
My daughter turns to me. “But why is Ma bowling?”
 I laugh at the absurdity now. As a child, I’d sneak into my parents’ bed during 
a thunderstorm, the idea of my dead grandmother bowling never seeming to calm my 
nerves. But the warmth of my mother’s hand in mine allowed me to sleep through the 
rain. “Well, it’s fun! And, plus, it’s her way of telling us she’s up there watching over us.” 
I smile the tears away and swallow hard. 
 Zoey loosens her grip and places her head on the chest she once nursed from. 
At last, she falls asleep. The rain has quieted down, drops falling like down feathers. Ma’s 
not bowling anymore. 
 Grief is like a rainstorm. Memories are cloudy at first, and then they pound in 
your brain so hard and fast it hurts just to think about them. Eventually, over time, they 
ease and become melodic dreams. Then another storm crashes in. 
Until then, thanks for the strikes, Ma.
Julie P. Center
Fall 2018 Journal .indd   23 1/3/19   4:35 PM
     i   fi  li    j    
ll   li   i  i    i    
ll     ll  i    i    li   i    
l  f  I l   i  i       ll  i    if 
i      i  f   I   il
ll ll      f   i  i  f     
 
  f
  l   i      l        i  f 
     f l    l  f  
   i i  I   li
I l     i       i    l  l  
i   f i  I l  i  i    
ll        
  ill    i
       i   li
 I l    i     il  I   i     i  
   i  f    li   i   l   
    f    i  i  ll    l    
i  ll  i  f   l  i    f lli      i    
I il      ll   
  l   i   l          f  
 l   f ll  l   i   i    f lli  li   f   
 li   
 i f i  li   i  i   l   fi      i  
 i     f  i   j   i    ll   i   
   l i       i  
il   f   i  
.
ll  r l .i    / /    :  
 “What was that?” Zoey questions the first bomb-like boom. She jumps up and 
pulls the blinds apart, peering outside as the wind smacks the trees.
“Well, Ma used to tell me it’s those up in the stars bowling. So...maybe it’s Ma.” Another 
clap of thunder. I hold her tighter in my arms. “See, she knocked all the pins down.” As if 
strings are attached to the sides of my mouth, I puppet a smile.
“Well actually, Zo, the sounds come from the air expanding from pressure,” my husband 
corrects me.
“Aaron, she’s four.”
“Never too early!” He winks at me. When Aaron looks up to the sky, he doesn’t think of 
my mother. He sees spheres of plasma and gaseous clouds of dust. 
“No, Daddy!” Zoey insists. “It’s Ma bowling.”
I look at my husband with narrowed eyes, but he doesn’t notice. “For now, let’s leave 
science out of it,” I plead with him. “She’s scared.” 
“Well, she needs to know,” he says. 
“And she will. Just not tonight.”
My daughter turns to me. “But why is Ma bowling?”
 I laugh at the absurdity now. As a child, I’d sneak into my parents’ bed during 
a thunderstorm, the idea of my dead grandmother bowling never seeming to calm my 
nerves. But the warmth of my mother’s hand in mine allowed me to sleep through the 
rain. “Well, it’s fun! And, plus, it’s her way of telling us she’s up there watching over us.” 
I smile the tears away and swallow hard. 
 Zoey loosens her grip and places her head on the chest she once nursed from. 
At last, she falls asleep. The rain has quieted down, drops falling like down feathers. Ma’s 
not bowling anymore. 
 Grief is like a rainstorm. Memories are cloudy at first, and then they pound in 
your brain so hard and fast it hurts just to think about them. Eventually, over time, they 
ease and become melodic dreams. Then another storm crashes in. 
Until then, thanks for the strikes, Ma.
Julie P. Center
Fall 2018 Journal .indd   23 1/3/19   4:35 PM
3
Center: My Mother's Thunderstorm
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018


My Mother\u27s Thunderstorm

Crawford, Ronda

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 41 | Number 1 Article 25
Fall 12-1-2018
Origami
Ronda Crawford
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Crawford, Ronda (2018) "Origami," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 41 : No. 1 , Article 25.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol41/iss1/25
Origami 
 When my father left my mother, she became smoldering paper. She didn’t fold, spindle
or mutilate herself. She didn’t crumble up into a ball and throw herself away. Instead she became 
inanimate, flat, two-dimensional, with charred edges, silent and always smoking. She could inter-
face with things, pots that cooked meals, dishes that needed washing, hair that need to be braided, 
she only conversed with our cat Dog, and she always had a lit cigarette. She became afraid she 
would be swept away by a strong wind, or damaged in some way by the wetter elements, or 
perhaps yellowed prematurely in the sun, so she rarely left the house. She would stare wistfully at 
the television, or out a window for hours at a time, or listening to music. Even then I recognized 
the way my mother waited for the familiar sounds of keys, and then footsteps, a heavy voice that 
would call out and ask for something, food, water, the mail, anything as a greeting. She was wait-
ing for my father to come home.
 For a while my mother could change shape and form and will herself to become various 
things, mother, daughter, separated wife, and magically never showing where a previous crease 
or fold had been. She did emotions as well, laughing at jokes, angry that something that couldn’t 
easily be replaced had gotten broken, she hugged and smelled of Youth Dew... for awhile at least. 
Then one day in the middle of the night she made a shape, so complicated with so many angles, 
and tight corners, that she could barely move. Anna with the laughing eyes, suspended animation 
and became her final self, ornamental, and fragile.
Homestead
Susan Trestrail
Fall 2018 Journal .indd   24 1/3/19   4:35 PM
1
Crawford: Origami
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018
 My father became the rock star, a legend in his own time, a hero of the footlights, 
making exclusive one-night-only appearances. My father didn’t play an instrument he played 
people, and my mother and I became his biggest fans. Our admiration of his artistry was sec-
ond only to the virtuosity of his bullshit.
 When my father came to town on his hit-and-run tour you had only a 24-hour win-
dow to confirm your seat, and even though the show was usually delayed by hours, or might 
be canceled with a moments notice, our enthusiasm never wavered. “I want to run through” 
he would say, and my mother became transformed, animated and whole. We would talk about 
styling and stage setting, rehearsing our lines so that there were no missed opportunities. We 
would be the best audience ever, engaged, laughing on cue, and we knew that if we applauded 
and cheered loud enough long enough, we might get an encore. And that would lead to repeat 
performances, and that could lead to an extended run with an indefinite end, if we could only 
show enough appreciation.
 My mother was a naturally good looking woman, and when she tried, which she only 
did for my father, she was drop dead gorgeous. But my father was a classic beauty, too pretty to 
be just handsome, a fact he had been reminded of every day of his life by most women he met. 
And, if that didn’t do it for you, he was charming, in a way you only see in black and white 
movies. He was ready with a light for a cigarette, a lozenge for a cough, or a soft white linen 
handkerchief you could keep to catch tears.
 My grandmother called him “Slick,” the last of the great door openers. But she never 
smiled when she said it. And she always said it as if were one name, Slick-the-last-of-the-great- 
door openers. The sound would be in a different font, with hyphens, italics, letters so small, and 
delicate you almost missed them. Almost.
 I sat, most times unnoticed on the broken step-ladder in the kitchen next to the stove.
Facing the light from the old black and white portable television with the wire coat hanger for an 
atena, the one you had to change the channel with a pair of pliers because the knob had broken
off. I watched everyone unfold around me, with my eyes shut tight, seeing everything play out, 
and hating all of it, while loving each and every one of them. I was 10.
Ronda Crawford
Fall 2018 Journal .indd   25 1/3/19   4:35 PM
2
The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 41, No. 1 [2018], Art. 25
https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol41/iss1/25


Origami

Wood, Kathi

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 41 | Number 1 Article 38
Fall 12-1-2018
Eyes R Watching
Kathi Wood
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Wood, Kathi (2018) "Eyes R Watching," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 41 : No. 1 , Article 38.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol41/iss1/38
Eyes R Watching
Kathi Wood
Fall 2018 Journal .indd   3 1/3/19   4:36 PM
1
Wood: Eyes R Watching
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018


Eyes R Watching

Garcia, Marcia

ESSAI
Volume 16 Article 1
Spring 2018
Front Cover
Marcia Garcia
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/essai
This Prefatory Note is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for
inclusion in ESSAI by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Garcia, Marcia (2018) "Front Cover," ESSAI: Vol. 16 , Article 1.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/essai/vol16/iss1/1
Essai
The College of D
uPage Anthology of W
riting Across the Curriculum
Volum
e XVI
20
17-20
18
Essai
The College of DuPage Anthology of Writing Across the Curriculum
Volume XVI
2017–2018
What is Essai?
Created in 2002 by across-disciplinary faculty, ESSAI, College of 
DuPage’s Anthology of Academic Writing Across the Curriculum, is 
an annual academic journal that represents a unique but inclusive 
discourse community of student writers; it fosters student success 
through writing across the curriculum and in all levels of learning 
at College of DuPage.
It rests on our belief that writing empowers and prepares our  
students for meaningful careers and advanced academic pursuits 
and that, to realize such goals, the entire college community is  
responsible for incorporating writing into their courses as a vital  
part of the academic experience at our college.
That we practice the philosophy of student success through good 
writing will become even more apparent in the journal’s name. 
It harkens back and pays homage to Michel de Montaigne, whose 
seminal style of writing ‘essais’ connoted one of trials and attempts. 
The resulting published work is their expanded cultural and 
epistemological self-endowed with talent, sophistication, and fresh 
scholarship, all expressed with clarity, eloquence, and grace.
Join with us in honoring the exceptional talents of our 
student authors. 
1
Garcia: Front Cover
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018


Front Cover

ESSAI
Volume 16 Article 3
Spring 2018
Awards & Recognitions
Follow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/essai
This Prefatory Note is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for
inclusion in ESSAI by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
(2018) "Awards & Recognitions," ESSAI: Vol. 16 , Article 3.
Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/essai/vol16/iss1/3
II 
 
 
 
Awards and Recognitions 
 
 
 
ESSAI is a recipient of the prestigious recognitions of  
 
The 2005 Distinguished Achievement Award 
of the Community College Humanities Association  
 
 
 
The Society of Midland Author’s Qwertyuiop Award 
 
(Founded in 1915, the Society of Midland Authors has included for its members 
Hamlin Garland, Harriet Monroe, Vachel Lindsay, Edna Ferber, Carl Sandburg, 
Jane Addams, Clarence Darrow, and other literary luminaries.) 
 
 
and 
 
 
The 2009 Diana Hacker Two-Year College English Association (TYCA) Award for 
Outstanding Program for Two-Year Colleges and Teachers 
In the Category of Fostering Student Success 
(The TYCA is a national organization that belongs to 
the National Council of the Teachers of English-NCTE). 
 
1
et al.: Awards & Recognitions
Published by DigitalCommons@COD, 2018


College of DuPage

Not a member yet