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I can’t make it through a Seder without laughing. Across the table, my sister makes faces at me and walks her parsley across her plate. The balls of gefilte fish quiver on the good china, dressed in a suspension that we call “snot” and carefully scrape off with our forks.
By Hannah GoldMay 2000The thin wall between this world and the next, midnight letters, warm milk and molasses
By Our ReadersMay 2000The psychiatrist wants to know if I have allergies, if I take any medication. I tell him I have hay fever. He rubs his bald head; I rub mine. His window is covered with wire mesh. Outside, it’s starting to rain. He pages absently through his manual with a large thumb, not really looking for anything. I can feel the rain in my bones. Since I ran away a year ago, I’ve spent a lot of cold, wet nights huddled under boxes, hiding in boiler rooms. Running, running.
By Stephen ElliottApril 2000The redwoods of northern California rise around us as we snake along Highway 101 somewhere south of Eureka. The air here is plush, sunlight slanting through wisps of fog among the trees. Looking out the window, my daughter says, “Look, Mommy. The light is realer.”
By Charissa Lynn DrengsenMarch 2000I have been waiting for the voices, for the vague, disarming incoherence of psychosis, for evidence, substantiation, beyond my crooked teeth and lazy eye, that I am indeed my father’s son.
By Alex MindtFebruary 2000A toilet paper roll, a tiny red metal bicycle, an out-of-body experience
By Our ReadersFebruary 2000This is what my mother, in the end, couldn’t bear: the forward rush of possibility, the hum of new life buzzing in the air as winter opens to spring. Surrounded by such sweet promise, she felt as empty as a footprint pressed in dried mud.
By Esther EhrlichFebruary 2000A beautiful, naked woman on a white horse; a marriage proposal; a Dustbuster
By Our ReadersJanuary 2000I’ve longed for someone since I can remember, and not a night goes by when I don’t reach for her. It’s been hell having something between my legs, but as my mother would say, we must make the best of what we have and not complain of what we don’t.
By Peter NajarianNovember 1999Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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