Maria Ceferatti

When I look at my nine year- old son, I see my husband’s face. His square jaw, his chiseled cheekbones, his light brown hair, his delicate, perfectly proportioned nose.

Summer School

C.G. Morelli

I’d have my glove on my lap and we’d pop a couple pieces of Doublemint gum into our mouths and talk about how crappy Steve Jeltz had played the week before or how pathetic Steve Bedrosian looked coming out of the pen.

Clamming – Changing Tides

Robert Freedman

I hadn’t discovered meditation back then, but if I had I might have noted that how I felt was the state that those who meditate aspire to reach. But maybe if I had known, it would have ruined the whole thing.

Selective Memory

Lisa Meritz

For years my mother, Sally, lied to me. I always knew that she wasn’t truthful about her age, but until my father died I never knew the extent of her deception.

Vanishing Acts

Walter Bowne

For ten weeks last spring, I drove my daughter Madeline down to Elmer, New Jersey, for Saturday morning art classes.

Visiting Day

Tim O’Connell

One Sunday a month I go to prison, the Federal Detention Center (FDC) located a few blocks north and west of Independence Hall.

The Count of Three

Kristina Moriconi

On Saturdays, we folded paper boats. With his sleeves rolled, he stood beside the pond creasing triangles, corner to corner, his reflection rippling in the water