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Tweet I am a peridot. My two half-sisters: garnet, an amethyst. And together, we’re mounted on a circlet of greening, tarnished gold. The ring is the sum of her life and the remainder of her existence. It is the single souvenir I took when she died. And though I recall it spinning freely on my mother’s . . . → Read More: I’ll Have to Put It on a Chain Tweet Gangly boy, Indian style by the bent and beaten accordion door of the townhouse garage. Knocking off surrounding shingles, playing ricochet—”catch” takes two—with a fuzzed-out, soggy yellow tennis ball ‘til he loses it to traffic. Mother works a second shift tonight, so he will make blue-boxed pasta again. The five pm fathers return to neighborhood . . . → Read More: Father Tweet Phil, the foreman, starts his truck and it coughs with the exhausted guttural roar of a lifelong smoker. Wheels waist high spray gravel back into aluminum siding, into my face. Noontime traffic in this part of town, I’ve got fifteen minutes before he returns. Black-smeared, paint-spattered arms will cradle foot-long grinders and Gatorade for associates . . . → Read More: Pinioned Tweet 1. The Father The burial isn’t the first time the father has seen his son, but it may as well be. Nine months after delivery, he told his son’s mother he’d never wanted children. He stood with the woman on the sunlit front porch of their townhouse. “I’m sorry,” he said. “All babies look like . . . → Read More: The Kind of Man Who Tweet Remy Mallory’s father has been dead four years by the time Remy starts noticing him everywhere: the supermarket, the Laundromat, the Seven-Eleven. Remy sees a convincing permutation of his father in nearly every man past fifty; he recognizes them. Dad has become a businessman. That’s dad and he’s retired. R.L. Mallory was a wreck of . . . → Read More: Hibakusha Tweet 1. I fold my knees up to my chest and turn onto my side, sort of half fall onto the carpet before I can think about how dirty it is, how long it’s been since it was vacuumed. When this occurs to me, I upright myself, take an antiseptic towelette from the box by the . . . → Read More: Of My Own Free Will Tweet My mother is dead. There she is, right in front of me, fake-looking and waxy the way department store mannequins imitate life. And for sure, I’m crying, shaking, but not about death. The truth is, I have no idea why I’m crying. I’m holding her hand, cold and that cyanotic blue, but none of this . . . → Read More: Marooned |
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