BY ABIGAIL KING This is how it began: mornings, sitting outside on a stone bench, listening to the mockingbird. You exist. I exist.
Category: Way-Seeking Mind
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.
The Rose-Pink Porcelain Bathtub
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.
The Fly Antecedent
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.
Esso Station
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.
The Gift
BY D.M. DILILLO Hospice had been called. He wanted to go at home.
Heard Island
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.
Let the River Reach the Lake
BY TANYA E. E. E. SCHMID My husband studied horse-whispering. He said it involved doing as little as possible, remaining still and centered.