Issue 317 | The Sun Magazine

May 2002

Readers Write

Mothers & Daughters

Remembering slights and fights, going horseback riding, swimming with dolphins

By Our Readers
Sy Safransky's Notebook

May 2002

I’m struggling with the essay. The elevator is waiting to carry me into the mine shaft, but I’m stalling. It’s dark down there, I protest, as if I’ve just discovered darkness.

By Sy Safransky
Quotations

Sunbeams

In the beginning there was my mother. A shape. A shape and a force, standing in the light. You could see her energy; it was visible in the air. Against any background she stood out.

Marilyn Krysl

The Sun Interview

Singing To The Dawn

Thomas Berry On Our Broken Connection To The Natural World

If we want to survive and to remember what it is to be human, then we need to establish a viable pattern of activity for the whole earth community. This community should be governed by the principle that every being has three rights: the right to live; the right to occupy a habitat; and the right to fulfill its role in the ever-renewing processes of nature.

By Derrick Jensen
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Talk

The sound of air expanding in my chest cavity and then being forced past the catgut of my vocal cords — that’s the sound my mother heard. It was a frightening, ugly sound, but the grief was pure and clean. Against the thickness of it, the viscosity, my mother would segue from soothing words into stories.

By Maureen Stanton
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Art Earthquake

“My front tires are so worn I can see the steel belts,” Michelle told me on the phone. “They could blow out any minute. Will you come with me to Kingston to fix them?”

By Sparrow
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Drowning Revisited

It is always someone’s fault. A drowning is rarely blameless. At the very least, there’s a lingering feeling that it could have been prevented. Your friend recommends a good vacation spot in the Bahamas to her neighbors; they go, and the husband drowns.

By Megan McNamer
Fiction

Blue Flamingo Looks At Red Water

That bus is going to slam into my daughter. In my stop-action memory, everything lies bare a grace note before the accident. The school bus grinds forward stupidly, a yellow hippo. Henry is at the crosswalk, waiting for me as I turn the corner. He is not holding Mary’s hand.

By Katherine Vaz