Welcome to Labrys, your student-run art and literature collective of Smith College.

I

I do not look like my mother. On Sunday mornings, I’d squirm, squeeze and slowly suck cool air into my lungs. I’d swiftly scoot my body over to the ladder, and walk down. Passing through my brothers’ mint colored yet foul smelling room, I’d open my ears, and listen for the sweet sound of reggae music. Taurus’ voice always seemed to make my mother and I feel warm, vulnerable and yet content.

II

The music was off. My mother was leisurely dancing in the kitchen with my father. She was dressed in his plaid colored shirt, and her hair was matted. My father had always capriciously questioned why she wore his clothes, but today, he said nothing. He simply held her close.

II

The music was off. My mother was leisurely dancing in the kitchen with my father. She was dressed in his plaid colored shirt, and her hair was matted. My father had always capriciously questioned why she wore his clothes, but today, he said nothing. He simply held her close.

III

I creeped into the kitchen and tightly squeezed both of my parents. The silence continued. My mother skeptically lifted her head, and I could see tears running down her cheek. I poked at the mole on her right cheek, she smiled. She released my father and I, and stepped into the bright living room.

IV

I do not look like my mother, but I am the finest pieces of her. I am have her smile, her integrity and the sway of her hips.

V

My mother stood by the stereo. She didn’t do anything.  Finally, she pressed track seven. The sweet rhythm of Duane Stephenson August town flowed throughout her weary body. My father and I were almost relieved until she suddenly began to cry. I walked up to her and hugged her. She cried on my shoulder as we danced harmoniously. Rasum had died.