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The activity center at my parents’ Florida condo was a low, T-shaped building with sliding glass doors that opened onto room after well-lit room. Signs on these doors read, Bingo, Pottery, Woodworking.
By Genie ZeigerOctober 1996It’s August 1995, and Billy says the Mick is as good as dead. My brother counts one, two, three on his fingers: “First they give him a new liver. Then the cancer they missed eats up his lung. Then he dies.”
By Robert SolomonOctober 1996My boyfriend, Tony, tells me he remembers seeing Muddy Waters sitting in a chair on Maxwell Street in Chicago playing the blues. He says it was a Sunday morning and Muddy was playing alone. Now the Maxwell Street market shines with the silver circles of cleaned hubcaps, hanging for sale.
By Patricia S. SullivanSeptember 1996Buying a gun; reading Being Peace, by Thich Nhat Hanh; going to the hole for fifteen days
By Our ReadersSeptember 1996The first time I met my future in-laws, I was standing next to the bed that their son and I had been sharing for some months. The apartment was small, the bed very large. While the four of us made a stab at pleasantries, our eyes darted furtively to pillows and sheets.
By Lynn MundellAugust 1996Licking your plate, listening to screams echoing up the stairwell, entertaining yourself
By Our ReadersAugust 1996On the counter top there’s a pad of paper with some familiar but illegible scrawl. The handwriting is angry. Next to the pad is a five-dollar bill under a refrigerator magnet. Too obvious. More clunking sounds from the basement. I wonder if he’s down there.
By Stephen ElliottAugust 1996Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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