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I can’t tell you this, but my mother has a dot on her lung. It’s a small dot, on the left lung. If her lung were a map of Texas, the dot would be roughly the size of the city of El Paso, which is large enough to be written in boldface type by Rand McNally.
By Diana Stuart GreeneOctober 1994You call me at my new apartment. I wait for you to mention Grandma’s table one more time — it’s been in storage for a year since she died, waiting for a grandchild to claim it.
By S.L. WisenbergSeptember 1994My mother wound a dish towel around her left wrist, pulled it tight, then unwound it. My father sat waiting for something, smiling slightly, looking across the kitchen table at me and my sister, Kim.
By Mark PhillipsSeptember 1994His father was rotting from the inside out, and much of their visits consisted of Silas sitting and waiting in the living room, trying not to listen to the sounds coming from the bathroom.
By Keith EisnerSeptember 1994“He says he believes God is a Yorkshire terrier.” My sister Nance’s voice hissed across the long-distance lines.
By Sarah E. BewleyAugust 1994A family graveyard, a redwood tree, a private language
By Our ReadersAugust 1994When I was seven, my father used to complain that I ate like a dinosaur — the kind that stood on its hind legs and ripped off tree branches with its mouth. The louder he yelled at me, the more I used my spoon like a shovel, until he’d wrap his fingers around my wrist and squeeze so tightly I couldn’t breathe.
By Janice LevyJune 1994Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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