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.
Holly Allen's poem Michigan Green recalls the summers spent in Michigan with her great-grandmother.
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.
Chris Alaimo's Lovely Kid is an expression of grief for the freedom and innocence through which we explore ourselves in exploring the world in childhood.