Category Archives: Nonfiction

As read directly from your email inbox in a letter from me that has just arrived … Greetings….. Just before the school zone was an electronic speed board flashing me at 33mph. Instant reflex was to compare that speed with … Continue reading →

Maybe I bumped her elbow. It could’ve been something as simple as that: the catalyst. And when she turned around to see me, her response was habitual – not calculated. She saw my face and then looked down my body … Continue reading →

I used to wonder why Mom planted all those flowers in a big strip across the back yard, going from the corner where the swing set used to be with those mud puddles underneath where our feet had rubbed the … Continue reading →

I never felt like I belonged in my family. Born the last of four accidental children, by the time I made an appearance my mother not only skipped making a baby book for me, she never bought a stitch of … Continue reading →

When Zachary was eight months old and in his baby walker and in a second of my inattention and mistake, he scooted onto the landing of a flight of twenty-two concrete stairs that led down into the dark basement floor … Continue reading →

Dear Readers, Thank you to all the writers who submitted their work for this month’s issue. For the last two months, I have been humbled, amazed, and blessed by your wonderfully crafted essays and stories. As I first began reading … Continue reading →

As a small child, my mother lay in the long Scottish night dreaming of places worlds away—Rio, San Francisco, Zanzibar. Now, she lies on a hospital bed, her limbs like sticks, her shanks encased in a diaper which she plucks … Continue reading →

I glance down at running, 5:13 AM. My mother and I have already run 5 miles. She is ahead of me, and in the harsh glare of the streetlight I see her sinewy arms and bobbing head as she bounces … Continue reading →

Her piano, tall, dark, no-nonsense – upright like an unmarried uncle, followed us from house to house.  After a bed and chair, it was the next piece of furniture my father bought her. All music seemed hers. “I’m Called Little Buttercup” flowed … Continue reading →

It’s December 26th. I’m sitting on the right side of my mother’s hospital bed, away from the tangle of machines on the bed’s left— the cardiac monitor and respirator, the suction tubes and IV. The cardiac monitor blinks red and … Continue reading →