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Everything is packed in the rented car and we are about to drive off when my mother sucks in her breath and says, “Your father!” She gets out of the car, runs into the house, and returns with the baroque-looking urn that was left out on the dining-room table like airplane tickets so she wouldn’t forget it.
By Colleen CreamerJanuary 1997My wrist grows warm and creaks, aches like an arthritic’s. My forehead’s pressed against his “treasure trail” — that’s what we called the line of hair on a boy’s stomach in high school; giggling, we watched the shirtless boys run back and forth, chasing a ball. When their bellies began to glisten, we grew quiet, afraid to speak our minds. I’m sweating now, with my head smushed against him. I lick him with my wilted tongue.
By Susannah Joy FeltsJanuary 1997A hand-embroidered silk Chinese robe, a pouting clown picture, a run through the woods
By Our ReadersJanuary 1997A drug addict, a second-grader, a domestic violence victim
By Our ReadersDecember 1996After lunch, R. asked me to give him a ride. We walked across the street to my car. When he saw my beat-up station wagon, he looked at me quizzically. I thought things were going well, he said.
By Sy SafranskyNovember 1996I have not healed so much as learned to sit still and wait while pain does its dancing work, trying not to panic or twist in ways that make the blades tear deeper and finally infect the wounds.
By Lauren SlaterNovember 1996A picture hangs on the wall of my study. In it, my mother is kneeling to pose with my brother, my sister, and me. The picture was taken a few months before my mother died, and we are all smiling, cheerful, innocent, unaware of the ways in which our lives are capable of changing.
By Ann MarsdenNovember 1996An old water tower, an airplane blanket, a diamond pendant in the shape of a heart
By Our ReadersNovember 1996Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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