It’s an effort to prove to her that my love is so great I will create a romantic dinner just for her. I will learn how to cook ravioli. I will purchase a ravioli-making machine.
The Ravioli Incident by Alex Belz
Category: Essays
Switched at Midlife by Sharon Carmack
I wasn’t expecting another daughter. I was expecting a mother. But there comes a point when mothers and daughters switch roles. Her voice on the phone: “Hello, Sharon? This is your daughter.” I smile. “No,” I say. “I’m your daughter. You’re my mother.”
Confirmation by Nikki Foltin
November rain drummed the stained-glass panels of St. John’s southern exposure—not with the intruding rat-ta-tat-tat of a snare, but the low, rolling of a bass drum, more of a feeling than an actual sound—like the third cello in an orchestra, whose part is only appreciated in absentia. On any other day I might not have given such weather any consideration, but, on this day, I worried that the rain might somehow distract or detract from the service.
Debbie Did by Deborah Thompson
Forty-seven years ago my parents named me Debbie. The birth certificate says Deborah, but the intention was always Debbie. They said the name was unusual at the time, and that their choice had nothing to do with Debbie Reynolds. It was a good Jewish name—but not too Jewish. It just felt right.
The Patriotic Chicken by Krista Creel
Riding in my Sunday dress in the passenger side of a well-equipped Cadillac Deville down an old gravel road, I was feeling the kind of sublimity that not even my small town southern preacher could’ve gleaned from me that day. Why? Because I had a rooster on my lap.
Learning to Swim by Angelle Scott
Most people learn how to swim when they are young. It’s easier for children because they haven’t become as aware of their mortality as adults have. They may be afraid of water, but they aren’t afraid of drowning to death, like some adults are. I was in my late twenties when I took my first swim lesson.
Destination: Golden Gai by Nora Maynard
This postage stamp-sized district—Golden Gai, it’s called—has a reputation for being bohemian, a magnet for artists and intellectuals. Whether that’s true, I couldn’t tell you. It’s a Friday night, but except for my husband and me, the streets are completely deserted.
The Long Way to Home Base by Jodie Dalton
Greg and I were Going Out. In high school, that was a big deal. Anyone could date, but Going Out was serious. It meant passing cryptic and affectionate notes to each other in class. It meant slowly and unconsciously beginning to dress like each other. It meant sharing friends, having comfortable dinners with each other’s families, and loyal monogamy. And it meant making out.
Nothing Between Us Now But Love by Rick Kempa
My mother and I are working our way down to Moab, where I will be leaving her in the care of my brother. A road trip with her is a risky thing; in motion, she can become as unmoored as any poor creature in the universe, and as desperate. Thus, I have put Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion in the tape deck, thinking it will sooth her and, if our luck holds, buy us a hundred or so miles of calm. It’s worked. For a long time we have been mostly silent, caught in a spell of organ and strings.
Scarcity by Kim Liao
He works in mathematical algorithms; I work in failed utterances. In the borders of what language can’t or won’t or shouldn’t say, but does. And vice versa. Sometimes I wish I could explain why this leads to sleepless nights, or how it feels to be overcome by that frustrating yet oh so exhilarating, even sexy, burning fire to simply express.
