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That word, competence, came to me after my six-year struggle; it came as an alternative, if not an outright escape hatch, to the daily grind of despair.
By Lauren SlaterJuly 2018The next two hours are the most precious I will ever spend with my father. He is alert and not visibly suffering. Though not a chatterbox, he converses with us all.
By Poe BallantineJuly 2018You do not have cramps. That’s invented by women who want attention. We don’t go in for that kind of malingering — that’s what it is. You have cramps because you eat too fast. You don’t chew.
By Heather SellersJune 2018A good teacher, a shared meal, a heartfelt apology
By Our ReadersApril 2018My father hadn’t left us yet / but I have no memory / of him living there.
By Matthew LaPierreApril 2018My dad’s name was Ed, but his friends called him Eddie. In old photos he is Jack Nicholson handsome, with devilish good looks and a mischievous gleam in his eye. I can see why my mom fell for him.
By Christi ClancyApril 2018One can die in cleanliness, or one can die in filth. I’m not talking about your soul. At the Prince Hotel — an old Bowery flophouse — the men paid a few dollars a night to live in stalls, four feet wide and six feet deep, with chicken-wire ceilings.
By Mary Jane NealonApril 2018Riding with strangers, praying to Mary, looking for fire
By Our ReadersMarch 2018It’s pizza night. Dad went to pick it up, and my mother is using our time alone to take subtle jabs at me, encouraging independence.
By Andrea GregoryFebruary 2018Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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