Browsing: Prose

Alisha Goldblatt Tracing the Faultlines We can’t choose our family, of course, nor is the warmth and reliability of our neighbors ever a guarantee. But somehow on this street of mostly transplanted now-Mainers, we won the lottery. Never mind…

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Tatiana Johnson Boria Saturn After each visit to your grandmother’s group home, over the past two decades, I’ve learned the art of capturing. Of forcing my mind to remember my mother in all of her dimensions. I use these…

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Tamara J. Madison Dispatch My mother suffered Beauty, having so much of it, being sought after, suitors lined and vying for her attention. What to do with all that fineness? It must have been a lot of upkeep to…

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Lisa Moak Bonding With Stone My mother was a go-go dancer, or so I was told. I never met my mother. I doubt she was allowed to hold me before I was whisked away to foster care, then adopted.…

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Elizabeth H. Winkler Love Languages My mother irons my pillowcases, smoothing their wrinkles into sharp edges—crisp. There is a poem in that. An essay, too, and maybe even a song. I want to tell her there’s no need; I…

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