… my houseplant has been through a lot. It’s a seven-year-old jade, and it’s never lived in any house longer than five months before having to move again.
“They are my world. How do I make them dead?” This is Sonali Deraniyagala’s thought after losing her husband Steve, their two sons, and her parents to a tsunami.
Every story, every essay we write is a journey. It starts here, goes along for a while, and ends where we say it ends. But what if we start this journey with no idea where it’s going?
My family always drove by car. Road trips were the only kind of vacation I knew. Surviving out of a cooler (often making sandwiches with soggy American cheese) and making the most of time with Road Bingo and other car games.
“Look at those tits.” I was wearing … a cornflower-blue Ann Taylor dress made of soft, jersey cotton. The dress was hardly form-fitting, and nothing about it invited the usage of tits.
There are three safe topics that I can talk about with my dad – the law, downhill skiing, and jazz. The first two are of interest solely to him, but the last we share.
Standing behind the Green Gables Elementary School library with my best friend, Marnie. “There is something I have to tell you.” … Marnie missed gymnastics the day the team was told.
He started with T-ball at five—tiny tykes swinging eagerly, determinedly, sometimes tearfully, in a fierce contest with a stationary ball—and stayed with it through the finely honed and competitively groomed “majors,” the top rung of Little League.
As a teenager growing up in a small town in northern India, I was enthralled by the romantic visions of the accomplishments of Einstein, Bohr, Heisenberg, Planck, and the host of physicists who had changed our understanding of the physical universe and its inner workings.