After Mom got too tired to get out of bed, that man she insisted on calling my dad couldn’t be bothered to pick up the slack.
He took money out of her purse and walked with me to the store. I made friends with a little girl while he was inside. Her face tasted like peanut butter.
When he came back out, that man had a big box and he stood there by the trash can pulling everything out except what he needed. He stuck some of those cords in his pockets and a stack of paper, too. The whole time he was mad at me for making too much noise and helping too much.
Finally, he pulled the important thing out. He had to crack it out of a white shell that sounded terrible when the pieces of it scraped together.…
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I read Ken’s poem online
about his father and the paucity
of love words
the mental leaps
across the gaps
of knowing love was there
it reminded me how Dad
loved us without ever
saying that word
without giving up
his helpful notes
on jobs we should apply for
or cars we might buy
or ways we should save money
like the way he saved words
his suicide note typed out
with his one good hand
apologized
for leaving the way he did
he was proud of each of us
and wanted us to care for mom
whom he said deserved
great love
and then he signed it
Dad
– Mimi Whittaker
Note: This piece was originally self-published in a book called In a Dark Sea.…
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The Death
In the land of the dead, reapers usher the spirits of the dead across a river. One such reaper, Grimm, has done this for over six hundred years.
Unquenched
Grimm studied the familiar map showing where to collect his next spirit. As he approached, the spirit eyed him with disdain, and refused to pay for the ride. Grimm, momentarily taken aback, informed him that no money was needed to cross, after which the spirit happily boarded. Grimm asked the spirit his name and where he came from, but the spirit scoffed, insisting on payment for his answers. Grimm rolled his eyes beneath his hood, but tossed the spirit a gold coin, the metallic clink echoing in the stillness. The routine of ferrying souls through the underworld had left Grimm thoroughly unentertained, and the spirits’ tales were one of the few diversions left to him.…
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Last time I gripped
a badminton racquet: Puerto Rico.
Wide white sand bracketed
by palm trees, Atlantic Ocean.
Small waves rose a half mile
from shore
broke in rhythmic ripples,
spilled warm water
onto heated afternoon sand.
Tardy for family dinner
and we didn’t care,
protected by vaulted status
of newly betrothed.
There was no badminton.
We snorkeled in a crescent cove,
searching for the barracuda
Bob glimpsed the day before,
sharp needle-file nose
sliced through clear water.
He likes to hang out in that reef,
Bob said,
dove under.
I shook my head like a dog
freeing water from her ears.
Grinned with anticipation.
The man I’m about to marry
believes he thinks like a barracuda.
– Christy Wise…
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It was the kind of smell that could lift you off your feet. The aroma attracted half a dozen children with smiles as big as croissants. Sniffing like curious dogs, they looked at the counter and said nothing as they awaited their treats. My joy mirrored theirs as I presented the muffins.
Wow, they’re so warm! They said, and they’re so soft! How right they were. They get sweeter every day! Indeed they did. Once each child had taken one, more pastries still remained. Why did you bake thirteen? I told them I called it a baker’s dozen: two for each of them so they could share with a friend. The last one? That one was for me.
In time, they found their way back onto the cobblestones, laughing and singing, bellies full.…
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On the eastern face of the six-story Student Union Building, the architect had added a striking feature—the fire escape, instead of being clad in concrete, was enclosed in a glass shell, so that all twelve flights of delicate stairs, as though suspended in air, were visible from the courtyard below. The fire escape stairwell was thus transformed from a purely functional feature into what looked more like an Escher drawing that had somehow been straightened out. On a campus of drab buildings, the stairwell was an architectural gem.
It was precisely this aesthetic quality, this airy transparency, that caught the attention of Bernard W. Boggs, erstwhile graduate and successful entrepreneur, as he was escorted across the courtyard patio one sunny day in June. Boggs had been invited to campus for a special VIP Alumni Donor dinner at Eye in the Sky, the faculty restaurant on the sixth floor of the Student Union Building.…
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Growing up our family were the only kids at funerals. My father regretted not going to his own father’s funeral. He didn’t know how to act, afraid to embarrass and there was shame with suicide. The family worries, “What could we have done.”
My own son told me that, “It’s as if Grandpa were already dead,” when his paternal grandpa was in a nursing home an extended time. I took my kids to a friend’s funeral to show them the concept. They said the deceased “smelled like pumpkins.” When l felt my grandkids were old enough I would point to the dead squirrel on the ground and say, “No more squirrel!”
My father said the gravediggers took gold from dead people’s teeth; that it was a mistake to eulogize. …
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