Essay by Meryl Natchez
I didn’t see how I could say no. I knew if I were in her shoes, I’d feel the same.
I didn’t see how I could say no. I knew if I were in her shoes, I’d feel the same.
The intensity and obtuseness of family bonds is a mystery few of us tire of.
The glory and heartache of having your own family is there’s no possibility of staying out of the mess.
She told me to never go anywhere without a book, a bathing suit, and a sweater.
I have unwittingly raised a daughter too much like me: restless, willful, and walled against the fragility of life.
I was reminded of the beauty found in fragile things.
My father was not impressed with my first triumphant literary efforts, nor with the staple-bound magazines in which they appeared: Modine Gunch and Road Apple Review.
Fog obscured the houses. The scrawny, shaven-head rickshaw man sighed and hummed with the pedaling noise.
For the first forty years of my life, I was quite happy as an adopted child who knew nothing about his origins.
'Wait!' she yelled, running past at least a dozen confused travelers in the security line.