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Readers Write

Up All Night

Ovid’s Metamorphoses; sixteen yellow, legal-size pages; the Sea of Tranquility

By Our Readers August 2008
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Tell Me Something

Everything of my brother’s fits on a couple of shelves: boxes of records, books, a few photographs. When you’re killed at eighteen, you don’t leave much behind.

By Michelle Cacho-Negrete August 2008
Sy Safransky's Notebook

May 2008

The universe will let me know when I’ve worn out my welcome. Until then, why don’t I make myself at home?

By Sy Safransky May 2008

Into Silence

Over the course of two years I photographed my grandmother Marjorie Clarke on my weekly visits to her home in rural Butler, Maryland. With her health declining and Alzheimer’s disease loosening her ties to everyday reality, I spent much of my time reading aloud or singing songs to her, attempting to hold her attention as long as possible.

By Marshall Clarke April 2007

Infant Pneumonia

She wouldn’t suck. She wouldn’t cuddle. / Her eyes rolled toward me, then away again. / I hugged her to my chest and ran / from the doctor’s office to the X-ray lab.

By Cheryl Gatling December 2006
Readers Write

Waking Up

Without cancer, from an overdose, to the truth of a marriage

By Our Readers July 2006
Sy Safransky's Notebook

May 2006

What a big appetite fear has. What a succulent morsel I was last night.

By Sy Safransky May 2006
Sy Safransky's Notebook

July 2005

Today is four years since the accident that nearly took my daughter’s life; four years since the phone call that yanked me out of my Sunday routine, my idiotic notion that the day would go the way I wanted it to. It was a car crash. It could have been a bolt of lightning, Zeus showing off.

By Sy Safransky July 2005


It’s true that I’ve driven through a number of red lights. But on the other hand, I’ve stopped at a lot of green ones I’ve never gotten credit for.

Glenn Gould

February 2005