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May 2002In 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 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 StantonMay 2002Remembering slights and fights, going horseback riding, swimming with dolphins
By Our ReadersMay 2002The day after my mother told him the news, he called. His voice cracked, and I could hear him trying to pick up his words and hand them to me, one by one. “Are you all right?” he asked, over and over. It wasn’t so much what he said as what I heard in his voice: I heard somebody I’d never met before, a man he didn’t even know so well himself.
By Michael McCollyApril 2002Needle-nose pliers, the soft ticking of an antique clock, new underwear
By Our ReadersApril 2002Our dinner conversation was usually quick, as my father was a fast writer. He might ask, “What did you do today?” or, “How’s school?” and while I answered, he would already be scribbling out his next question. But that night, Dad didn’t write or even look my way. We just sat there twirling spaghetti onto our forks and forcing giant noodle-cocoons into our mouths.
By Jessica Anya BlauApril 2002Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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