I sat on my deck this morning in a COVID-induced haze and read Michelle DuBarry’s “Staying Tender” [August 2024]. Her essay was so clearly written, and I related so completely to the solace she found from walking in beautiful places, that the piece struck a deep chord with me. Tears rolled down my face, and my already stuffy nose reached full congestion. Because I have no children and thus have never had to face the unimaginable grief of losing one, like DuBarry has, I attributed my emotional reaction to the virus.
Then I remembered: I have lost a child. The baby was in utero, its existence a surprise after doctors said I was unlikely to conceive. That child would be getting her driver’s license this year. I certainly don’t compare my situation to the stories of loss in DuBarry’s essay, but I know that I have pushed my grief away to this day. I’ve moved on to find joy and comfort in the many children to whom I teach music, but I admire DuBarry, her husband, and the other workshop attendees for facing their grief head-on.
I didn’t know Michelle DuBarry’s “Staying Tender” was about losing a child until I started reading it. I lost my oldest son to cancer last year, eight days after his twenty-ninth birthday. The differences in how his father and I grieved led us to divorce after twenty years of marriage. When my younger son got married this year, he had me sit next to a picture of my dead son during the ceremony. It crushed me.
The only way I’ve been able to cope with the loss is to keep moving: I’ve explored several trails of the Grand Canyon, including a rim-to-rim hike. I’ve sailed the waters around Greece twice and soon will sail the coast of Croatia. Rather than running from the death of my son, I like to think I am honoring his love of travel.
After spending ten days at the bedside of my brother, who was dying slowly and horribly, I returned home and found the August 2024 issue of The Sun waiting for me. I’d cried more than enough by the time I got to “Clean Breaks,” Kirsten Sundberg Lunstrum’s short story about a sick child, but I was sure that, whether the child died or recovered, I would be crying again by the end. Instead I found myself dry-eyed and stunned. The ending left the choice of joy or sadness completely in my hands.
Not knowing what comes next is what keeps us turning the page, both in fiction and in our lives. Thank you for reminding me that my story remains unfinished.
“Clean Breaks,” in which a woman must decide whether to trust a stranger, hit home for me. I read it shortly after reporting a stranger to the Federal Trade Commission for scamming me.
I’d accepted his Facebook friend request because we had a mutual Facebook friend I’d known for a long time. Then my new “friend” messaged me and said how struck he was by my beauty. Within days he was saying how much he loved me, how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me—and, four days later, how badly he needed a $500 Apple gift card to reopen a suspended account. I was seriously skeptical, but he promised he would pay me back and that we could get married.
I am an old woman living alone. I have been twice widowed and am lonely and depressed. He was young and good-looking, and I was flattered.
When I noticed our mutual friend had unfriended him, I asked why, and she said it was due to his “aggressive friendliness.” That’s when it occurred to me that I had fallen for a preconceived, deliberate scam.
Sybil Smith’s short story “Charity” [June 2024] is beautiful and pitch-perfect. I became completely immersed and engaged with the characters and was surprised by how sad I felt when it came to an end. I wanted to spend more time with Stella and Charity. I hope Smith will consider continuing the story.
I loved Sybil Smith’s “Charity.” I’m getting close to Stella’s age and worry about needing care like she does. But Smith’s story reminds me that there are kind people in the world and we can always find unexpected pleasures in the smallest things.
“Charity” left me in awe. The power of human connection, even in short encounters with strangers, should not be underestimated. I can always count on The Sun to shine light on the private corners of the human experience.
I was surprised no one wrote about wearing a business suit in the Readers Write on “Uniforms” [June 2024]. Though I spent most of my professional life as a mental-health-care provider, I worked for three years in corporate America, where I was required to wear a suit. It was a uniform I came to detest. A suit denotes formality, power, and importance, and some people use theirs as armor or to keep others at arm’s length. I worked with some who had questionable intelligence or poor leadership skills and embodied the label “empty suit.”
When I wore a suit, I felt like I was playing a role. After I retired, I donated my suits to charity and vowed never to wear one again. So far, so good.
The basement scene in Chelsea Bowlby’s short story “Bridge Kid” [April 2024] is one of the creepiest things I’ve ever read. I was eating breakfast as I read it, and I realized I’d stopped chewing because of the suspense.
The author truly captures the vernacular of kids and how a strange sexual encounter can feel to a teen girl. Consent can be hard to parse. What Jesse did with (to?) the narrator feels like assault to me. But even Jesse can’t be painted with a broad brush. He’s not a bad guy, just a user of people. He struggles with urges; he says he’s sorry. These situations are often murky. Bowlby’s writing does them justice.
It is such a sad, beautiful story, and it has heart. I dare say that’s what we all want to read.
I was moved by Claudette Kay’s Readers Write on “Yard Sales” [April 2024]. She relates how, after she and her husband filed for bankruptcy and put a For Sale sign in their front yard, their neighbors pitched in to help them save their home. So many forces are dividing us, and so many hours are wasted in angry disputes and the belittling of others, but The Sun publishes writing that celebrates our common humanity. I am comforted in knowing that people like Kay’s neighbors—good people—are everywhere.
