Tag Archives: Essay

My Mother’s Only Reader by Jillian Luft

The remnants of my mother’s life fit neatly into the corner of a walk-in closet. They’re a modest inventory: five-mini cassettes, thirty-plus photo albums, a jewelry box containing a frustrated tangle of 14 karat gold chains and tennis bracelets, a couple of high school yearbooks, some salvaged Christmas ornaments and snow globes, a slim blackContinue reading “My Mother’s Only Reader by Jillian Luft”

The Knife by Jay Parr

I know by the knife in my pocket that this is when I was in high school. I’m maybe seventeen here. Pocket full of scrounged change—stolen change—I’m out on the dark sidewalks of our crime-ridden neighborhood, seriously jonesing for a cigarette, walking down to Handi Mart before they close because the Save-X is already lockedContinue reading “The Knife by Jay Parr”

Seven Broken Ways by Joe Kapitan

  The fifth broken way a father loves his son is Drawn Line. In this way, a father grabs his son by the shirt collar and shoves him out the door, tells him not to come back. There is shouting. There is this: you can live in your car, your tent, your anger. This isContinue reading “Seven Broken Ways by Joe Kapitan”

Two Micros by Kathryn Silver-Hajo

All’s Well Considering she was approaching 100, she was doing fine. She still planned dinner with her daughters most days, even put on a few pounds. She enjoyed having a cup of coffee with the neighbors at 4:00 every afternoon, nodding when they spoke of a son getting engaged or how expensive cherries were atContinue reading “Two Micros by Kathryn Silver-Hajo”

Kidding, Kidding By Di Jayawickrema

The first time I saw a thing I thought it was a rubber chicken. It looked so funny, drooping fat and yellow out of the man’s pants on the 6 train. I smiled up at him so we could laugh together but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. That’s when I knew he wasn’t kidding. I tugged my Amma’s hand to make her look butContinue reading “Kidding, Kidding By Di Jayawickrema”

First Monsoon By Naz Knudsen

    10. Early Mornings The 5:00 AM train that goes through the Sixth Street underpass whistles in the distance. Shuffling the pillows, I try to find a position that offers some relief from the pressure in the back of my neck. I live in an apartment near the University of Arizona campus. As anContinue reading “First Monsoon By Naz Knudsen”

A Glacial Slowness by Tara Isabel Zambrano

My mother is unable to cry. She’s sitting next to my father’s body covered in a white sheet, her hand over his chest. She’s staring at his face—dry, loose lips, a prickly beard—presses her hand on the fabric. The neighbors arrive for the prayers and my mother goes into the kitchen filled with relatives, someContinue reading “A Glacial Slowness by Tara Isabel Zambrano”