by Shanelle Matthews

I dread it. That uncomfortable, anticlimactic moment I enter the drug store and begin to comb through their dismal shelves for a Mother’s Day card. The stale smell of freon and fluorescent artificial lighting assaulting my senses as I listlessly pace the aisles looking for a sentiment that speaks to me—one that fits the unique experiences I share with my mom. Like the year before, I am underwhelmed with the choices. No brown faces; no candid, raw emotions that illustrate the complexity of our relationship; no culturally relevant jokes to make us laugh—and I think, who writes this shit?