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I come home one afternoon, in my first year of high school, and immediately go down to the basement, known as the “family room” in what were supposedly better days.
By J. W. MajorDecember 1998What I mean to say is: I want to forgive my ex-husband. I don’t want to die hating, or even resenting, him. We will never make love, never even kiss again. Never. So where is that song of forgiveness, reputed to be so sweet?
By Genie ZeigerDecember 1998A safe-deposit box, a black-and-white TV, a Christmas gift
By Our ReadersDecember 1998One night when I was sixteen, my father got out of bed, went into the living room, and fell to the floor. He was a big man, and from my own bed I heard the noise and felt the house shake and heard my mother call out, “Roy! Roy! My word!”
By Lee MartinNovember 1998A maple leaf, a two-inch brook trout, an execution
By Our ReadersNovember 1998The nurse leads me into the family waiting room, sits down on the couch beside me, and opens Mother’s chart. She says that Mother has congestive heart failure, a leaky valve in her heart, chronic lung disease, and osteoarthritis. In addition to this, the bone scan shows that the malignant melanoma on her back has metastasized into her pelvis, spine, and skull.
By Barbara L. FinchOctober 1998Raising money for a softball team, sharing a bag of rock candy, making gummy-bear jewelry
By Our ReadersOctober 1998An Appalachian Trail marker, a noodle shop, a white suit and matching fedora
By Our ReadersSeptember 1998He had tried to take my mother away from me, to leave me all alone. How different everything would have been without her. Suddenly it seemed as if she had always been with me, even when I was by myself, like that long cord that keeps astronauts from floating off into oblivion when they leave the spaceship.
By Pat MacEnultySeptember 1998Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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