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.
I watched my old man’s face, hoping he wouldn’t notice my chubby fingers creeping toward the volume knob.
“A ghost isn’t alive. Not in the way we think of something being alive.”
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.
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.
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.
In Necessary Turns, Liz Abrams-Morley offers her skillful and graceful take on the oft-poeticized subject of time: its harms and balms.
For ten weeks last spring, I drove my daughter Madeline down to Elmer, New Jersey, for Saturday morning art classes.
One Sunday a month I go to prison, the Federal Detention Center (FDC) located a few blocks north and west of Independence Hall.
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