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“Richest dirt in the world,” my dad is fond of saying. As I crumble the clammy soil in my hand, I think, If it’s so rich, why are we so poor?
By Keith LasseigneAugust 2020Falling for a firefighter, staying single, trusting someone with your cat
By Our ReadersJuly 2020sees the old woman — wheelchair bound, pushed by her daughter — glance / out the window, and goes in back / to fetch a shower cap. The woman tugs her daughter’s shirt and says, almost / inaudibly, It’s raining. / And it is raining. Barely.
By Benjamin S. GrossbergJuly 2020I. / I remember shaking hands: / damp sweaty hands and dry scratchy hands, / bone-crushing handshakes and dead-fish handshakes, / two-handed handshakes, my hand sandwiched / between a pair of big beefy palms.
By Lesléa NewmanJune 2020A trip with a stranger, a roadside rescue, a missing husband
By Our ReadersMay 2020— from “Estelle And Bob” | My father kneels at my mother’s grave / to ask her permission to go on match.com.
By Michael MarkMay 2020He would have said, sometimes it’s not about the truth. Sometimes it’s about kindness. Especially when it comes to family.
By Sam RuddickApril 2020I was six years old when I became aware that death was something that would happen to me. I was in the car with my mom, in the backseat because she followed the rules, and we were on our way home from the grocery store.
By Sam BellApril 2020— from “After He Left” | I returned home from work and stood / alone in the darkest / room in the house in my blouse / and skirt, barefoot.
By Heather SellersMarch 2020Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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