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To say that the Trump years have taken their toll on our already strained relationship would fall woefully short. It’s like a natural disaster has hit, and I have to keep updating my homeowner’s-insurance claim every time I find more damage.
By Elaine TosettiMay 2021I couldn’t see the loaves in her oven, but I could smell them. They smelled like the perfect weight of blankets on a winter night; like the loving and attentive parents I thought I deserved; like the solution to every natty problem that might crop up in life.
By Debra GwartneyApril 2021My father got beat / but he never beat me. / His skinny frame would tighten up, / he’d start to shake with a seething rage / at my errors, my arrogance, / he’d clench his bony fingers and say / “I’ll sock ya” but he never did.
By Michael PearceApril 2021A stolen letter, a posthumous package, a Christmas card from a stranger
By Our ReadersMarch 2021When I was nine, / my father began / telling me how to hurt / other boys. He said to / squeeze their upper lips / until their eyes watered / or twist their ears and / hold them low so you can / walk them like a dog.
By John StruloeffMarch 2021I read all the literature hospice brought: Give the gift of comfort and calm. Give them support, permission. Give them more than they gave you.
By Stephanie AustinFebruary 2021Some treat shiva purely as a party. Some have a mournful air. Some look deeply into your eyes, and you can see that they have suffered, too. This is the higher purpose of suffering: to inspire deep-eyed compassion. It’s one of those truisms that is actually true.
By SparrowJanuary 2021A trip to the Antarctic, a 500-mile pilgrimage, a two-hour bus ride
By Our ReadersJanuary 2021Chinese New Year in Philadelphia, Thanksgiving in Mexico, Passover in prison
By Our ReadersDecember 2020I’m listening to my father and his brother, / both in their eighties, debate their childhood / from adjoining La-Z-Boy recliners. / “We had no toys,” my father insists. / “What are you talking about, no toys?” / My uncle practically leaps from his chair
By Alison LutermanDecember 2020Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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