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Playing catch, running fences, digging your grave
By Our ReadersJune 1999My mother, my uncle tells me, has lost her wits. She lets a group of neighborhood kids into her house. They steal from her. Worse yet, she gives them money. Blank checks. She signs the checks, and these kids fill in whatever amounts they want. “They’re robbing her,” he says, “robbing her blind.”
By Lee MartinApril 1999When the old man came up to the bathroom to shave, I crept down to the kitchen for some breakfast. I listened hard for him as I poured those Shreddies, spilling the sugar and quickly tidying up to hide the evidence.
By Jennifer WorthamMarch 1999I’d discovered my hideout a few months before, when I chased a hare behind a mulberry bush at the foot of a large mound, about the size of a wheat pile at threshing time. Following the hare’s trail, I found a small hole in the rock, completely hidden from view by the bush.
By Anwar F. AccawiFebruary 1999A portable electronic keyboard, a tumor, a charge of solicitation
By Our ReadersFebruary 1999Every spring for ten years, Da told me he was dying. The pattern was always the same. For the next three months he’d plan and revise his funeral, then patiently await his demise on July 15, the anniversary of Mother’s death. Despite his determination, the worst illness he could muster was a tiny patch of skin cancer one year, which the doctor removed during an office visit.
By Kay Marie PorterfieldJanuary 1999Painting a fence, celebrating the silver anniversary of a friendship, running through the house naked
By Our ReadersJanuary 1999Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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