The journey took more than four hours. Crammed to the gunnels with more than a hundred people, the old fishing boat was slow. As it fought the currents, the engine could do little more than growl. Any wave caused it to shudder, as if it were afraid of the water. Wedged between two men and a woman with a baby on her lap, I couldn’t move an inch. I grabbed hold of my amulet and closed my eyes. Some people had thrown up inside the boat; others had urinated and defecated wherever they could. If we hadn’t been up on deck, lashed by the wind, the smell would have become unbearable. But nobody said a word. Whether it was because we were dreaming of a new life in Europe, or because we were petrified of drowning, we were silent.…
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My mother washed the outside of the pomegranate before she opened it.
Time felt still in the mornings when I sat by her as an audience across the small, round kitchen table. I watched her meticulously pick each and every tiny red seed pod from the white flesh with her thin fingers. She took the pomegranates and mixed them in the Greek yoghurt I had watched her pull off the shelf at the supermarket the day before. As she scooped them out, one of them fell and bounced off my shoe, then landed on the floor. I brought my foot up to the chair and wiped the juice off, however it left behind a small red stain.
We sat and ate in silence. 15 minutes later, I had to leave for school.…
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“Shit!” I say. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!”
To be precise, mouse shit…five dark brown droppings, each the size and shape of a grain of rice. On our kitchen counter! I recognize it because of my previous experience with mice. “We have a fucking mouse!” I rant. “In our house! Could the timing be any worse?”
My husband backs out of the kitchen and flees to our bedroom. Our daughter is out with her friends, doing whatever New York City teenagers do on a cold weekend day.
It is January 2012 and I have just come home from my mom’s funeral. Nine months earlier, my seemingly healthy and fit 73-year-old mom fell and broke her collarbone while walking my sister Anne’s dog. When the break didn’t heal, she went in for a CAT scan.…
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Slowly
savoring each bite,
each page,
each chapter,
each paragraph.
Chew it thoughtfully,
carefully,
let the words sink,
deeply,
treasure them,
they are priceless,
and be grateful
for such contact
with another mind –
communion
with a kindred soul;
you are enriched
and continue on.
– Duane L. Herrmann…
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2 a.m. is the hour of malcontent. The restless lie afraid of tomorrow, and the wide-awake try to bury the past.
Misha shifted her legs so she could wipe off their slick sweat on the bedsheet. The gentle whirr of the ceiling fan did little to assuage the relentless heat of Indian summer. She kept her eyes shut tight in a fruitless attempt to lure sleep, but her mind threw blank sheet after blank sheet for her thoughts to scribble on.
A grinding noise punctured her ears: the crunch of hard, white enamel scraping against itself from inside her husband’s mouth. Karim was facing away from her, and she knew he was dreaming. She poked her finger between his shoulder blades. A grunt, a sharp intake of breath, and a mumbled, “Sorry.…
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On the first day, it came for my abdomen, that sharp pain like the point of a knife, teasing the edges of my pelvis. The type of pain that makes you weep, less from the hurt, and more from the attack deep in the pit, in the core of your body.
And the doctor smiled.
“All part of being a woman, I’m afraid.”
“Or someone with a uterus,” I corrected.
He nodded in that sympathetic way you nod when your grandmother tells you she just saw her childhood friend, the one who’s been dead for decades.
“Of course. In any case, there’s not much we can do except keep an eye on it. Take some ibuprofen and see if that helps.”
I cradled my stomach, pressing my hand to my lower belly as I listened to words about how complicated my body was for having a womb, a piece of faulty machinery that no one could ever seem to troubleshoot correctly, an unfortunate bit of wiring that I would have done better had I been born without it.…
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Mom grows stalagmites.
They’re made of toothpaste.
Drips from her cavern each morning
landing not quite into the bowl.
The basin isn’t out of reach,
but she’s forgotten to extend.
Or to spit. Just drip.
Mom used to be the neat one.
I was the messy one.
The eggshell stalagmite
matches the eggshell counter,
her myopic eyes seldom notices
the heightening mound.
It repulses my senses.
I don’t rush its removal
knowing it’ll eventually be missed.
– Dara Kalima…
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