BY ABIGAIL KING This is how it began: mornings, sitting outside on a stone bench, listening to the mockingbird. You exist. I exist.
BY NATALIE MUCKER J-o-s. He wrote on the white board in purple marker, then spun to face us—a handful of seated strangers—in the small, neat room.
BY KENT JACOBSON My father clomped through life with boots—“Your mother will turn you into a softy”— and died early.
BY APRIL NANCE I have a photograph of my childhood self taken by my Aunt Sandy. In the picture she has tamed my scraggly hair and combed it into a neat blonde bob.
BY CHARLENE MOSKAL At around age seven I'd lie in tepid water in the rose-pink porcelain bathtub. I would look down the skinny length of me, close my eyes, imagine I was Jesus.
BY PATRICK BURR After climbing to the top of Bulamsan, a small peak in northeastern Seoul, I sat on a boulder and stared out from among the trees at the ivory city below the smog.
BY SUSAN DI RENDE It was the summer of 1959. I was four years old, sitting in the back of my parents’ Rambler driving down Route 60 past motels, restaurants, and gas stations.
BY D.M. DILILLO Hospice had been called. He wanted to go at home.
BY ELLIS SCOTT Mr Van Der Berg was Dutch and rail thin. He wore tailored three-piece polyester suits with pocket squares, and thick-lensed ombre shell glasses.
BY TANYA E. E. E. SCHMID My husband studied horse-whispering. He said it involved doing as little as possible, remaining still and centered.