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December 1989As for conforming outwardly, and living your own life inwardly, I don’t think much of that.
Henry David Thoreau, Excursions
Willie Mays was only thirteen years old, but already center field was his private domain. His mitt seemed to have radar installed in it, registering the trajectory and velocity of the ball. All Willie had to do was glide into place, flip out his glove, and the ball would land there, trapped in leather.
By Rob SullivanApril 1989I was a child with a peculiar and passionate hunger for the peppermint in toothpicks when I went on a lion hunt with Opal Lavender, who was my favorite person and one of my own people.
By Susan HanklaSeptember 1988The phone wakes me during the night. I rush to answer it because I have just been dreaming of Dad and imagine the call might be about him. It’s a wrong number, but I’m not annoyed. Catching a dream of Dad is like catching a rare, prize fish. The unconscious has goofed and let me see something it usually hides.
By Julia McCahillJuly 1988Being a tree, meeting the neighbors, growing larger than pains
By Our ReadersJuly 1988The horror and melancholy of childhood are what stand out. I can no longer remember most of it explicitly. I cannot even swear that the haunting happened in this lifetime. The so-called moment of trauma has vanished into the darkness of existence itself.
By Richard GrossingerMarch 1988As I drank my tea, I hoped I wouldn’t remember my dreams tonight. Last night’s dream about Walter confused me — I hadn’t thought of him in years. He had been two lovers before Fletcher, my first serious relationship as a divorced woman. I wondered what had become of him.
By Deborah ShouseFebruary 1988Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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