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.
Category: Way-Seeking Mind
Morning Toast
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.
Pandemic Snow
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.
Flow
BY JESSE CURRAN For the first mile, I replay last night. New Year's Eve. We're celebrating from our separate living rooms...
Leaving
BY MICHELLE NICHOLAYSEN When I left the Seventh-day Adventists, I thought I could keep the love and forget the wrath.
Serape
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.
Hey, Mockingbird
BY ABIGAIL KING This is how it began: mornings, sitting outside on a stone bench, listening to the mockingbird. You exist. I exist.
Intersection
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.
Dad Too Late
BY KENT JACOBSON My father clomped through life with boots—“Your mother will turn you into a softy”— and died early.
Yes, This
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.