Essay by Julie Evans
Touch transcends the other senses, especially when the dying have lost their mental moorings.
Touch transcends the other senses, especially when the dying have lost their mental moorings.
A farmer named Amadou took him into a millet field to see a tree that was possessed.
In this blue mood I prefer the Buddha’s drop of dew.
Our friend's wheelchair has grown to Jabba-the-Hutt standards.
It’s as if I’m peeling back my own tissues, marbled with fat, to learn.
What if he holds tight to his belief that gender is more important than having his own child pray for his soul?
As others try to warp my identity, it’s not always easy to feel that faith is a blessing.
Every walk I took with my daughter, the world opened before me as if newly created.
I pondered Norma’s offer of salvation. Even if I believed in God, could I believe in one so spiteful, so churlish?
Thoughts about my death don’t hijack me anymore, although I can still capsize into the swamp of fear if I dwell too long on nonexistence.