I remember a dad handing me flowers after a school play, driving me to a speech tournament at the crack of dawn on a Saturday, cheering from the sidelines, and crying at both my graduation and my shotgun wedding. My Alzheimer's-plagued dad remembers that he's supposed to remember me, but he doesn't know my name. … Continue reading Fathers.
Monday: One of the students in my memoir class writes about the death of her mother. My student was sixty-one when her mother passed away. Her mother had lived to the enviable age of ninety-three. A death not unexpected. And yet, in my student's piece, she writes about the sudden feeling of aloneness. "I no … Continue reading Breath.