Iris Wilde’s essays have appeared in the Globe and Mail, and she also writes fiction and poetry. She works in the information technology industry in Toronto, where she lives with her husband and two sons.
I grew up under my mother’s skirt. Light filtered through climbing roses and morning glory. There was room for a child’s table and two chairs. When my friends came, we drank tea and ate finger sandwiches. Mom didn’t like cops and robbers. Too many bruises on her shins.
