BY CHARLENE MOSKAL As I age I find I can no longer enter certain rooms. I see backspaces inhabited by specters of a world fading into my past.
BY VINCENT PUZICK I remember the smell of toast. I was in the middle of my morning minutes of Transcendental Meditation when my mother got home from her graveyard shift at the hospital.
BY JONATHAN H. MARKS A few years ago, when I was on an international fellowship in Geneva, some friends asked me to go to the mountains for the afternoon.
BY JESSE CURRAN For the first mile, I replay last night. New Year's Eve. We're celebrating from our separate living rooms...
BY MICHELLE NICHOLAYSEN When I left the Seventh-day Adventists, I thought I could keep the love and forget the wrath.
BY SARAH CHAVERA EDWARDS I never knew him in life. The man with calloused hands and almond eyes that would turn into half-moons when he laughed.
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.