by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
by Susanna Hargreaves Do my heartfelt words matter and will my children even remember the sound of my voice Will they think of me when they hear the faint keys of a piano or when they smell blueberry muffins baking and when they see the pile of books next to…
by Anne Eston I hold my head the way I held that robin’s egg when I was six. Unsafe in the nest Grandpa stole (he said it fell out of a tree), the egg sat. I took it, was careful… I couldn’t take care of it. Didn’t think it would…
by Brian Howlett I can make out a dim silhouette of the first step in the corner of the church basement. It’s an eternity away across the heaving, sweaty dance floor – but as I look down upon my father I know it’s on me to help him ascend from…
by Carla McGill The First Memory—The Last Day of Fourth Grade It was the year that President Kennedy was shot. We were at different schools, but they were just a few blocks apart. When my teacher found out what had happened, she sobbed, her head on the desk, while Barbara…