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I kept walking backwards. My shadow on the wall of the house was monstrously tall. I waved at it with both arms. The shadow’s arms were longer and wilder than mine.
By Ann BuckinghamJune 1994When I pushed away the cot and lifted the trapdoor, his eyes glinted for a moment like an animal’s in the beam of Mother’s flashlight. Biscuit crumbs clung to his mouth, and around his shoulders was the old blanket he’d secreted away. I reached down to help him up, but he shrank from me, his eyes filled with hatred.
By Chitra DivakaruniJune 1994He was a gruff, crusty, old-country Italian, with a long memory for past hurts both real and imagined. When he was feeling testy — which was most of the time — he responded with a grunt. He gave me one now that meant no.
By John CatenacciJune 1994Women seem to trust each other best by giving over the contents of their lives to another woman, who will allow those contents just to sit there undisturbed. Women look at each other and say, Yes, I have known this too.
By Sallie CaldwellMay 1994Hanging up the phone, I am overwhelmed with an embarrassing emotion: I am feeling left out. After all, I spent thirty-three years of my life in the San Fernando Valley waiting for The Big One. I should be in the muck of it.
By D. Rose HartmannMay 1994My grandmother regularly receives letters from my dead father. I’m on my way to see her now with one of them. Uncle Kirby wrote it. He writes them all.
By Lesley DahlMay 1994When my father was young, he loved his vegetable garden. He had reconstituted the soil from the bedrock up with lime, manure, and peat moss.
By Miriam SaganApril 1994Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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