Not so long ago, the woman who was going to marry my brother called me, out of the blue. Not really a surprise because it was close to the anniversary of the day her fiancé, my brother, dropped dead from nothing.Read More
I want to tell you not to go to the bar that night. I want to say, just stay in with a good book. But I know you, if I tell you not to you'll only be more determined to do it. So get dolled up, go to the bar, listen to the band and dance your heart out. But listen. Listen when your best friend tells you to stay away from him (they work together and there have been rumors).
I hope this letter makes sense. It is from the future, from you at thirty, from a land far far away. 2019 sounds impossible even to my ears, like spaceships and dystopia. Did the letter get warped in time travel? Maybe the words ran together, like ink on parchment, held out into rain.Read More
Congratulations. We aren’t dead! You still fit in the same jeans from high school. You exercise constantly now though, and you barely eat. You drink too much wine. You should quit smoking. You’re not going to succeed at being a glassblower, or growing weed, or tattooing, or painting. No rich man will come rescue you from the diner or the bar.Read More
This letter is a little late in coming—close to fifty years isa sizable chunk of time—but I wanted to tell you that you can stop searching for that lovely brown linen skirt you left behind after a week’s visit with me when we were young girls on the brink of life. I hope that you have not spent too many of the decades between that summer and this one riffling through closets, calling various hotels, reaching out to friends to whom you might have lent it. If you have, then stop. No good will come of it, certainly no skirt. I have never told anyone, but I kept that skirt of yours.Read More
I am not allowed to be angry. I don’t mean I’m not allowed to yell or break things or act out, though that is strictly forbidden as well, obviously. I mean I am not allowed to feel the emotion itself. It has no place in my being, no space it can comfortably take up. Instead, it squeezes into other homes, transforms into anxiety or rejection or, a personal favorite, self-loathing.Read More
Standing in front of the woman who ran the camp, I was ashamed. “Sorry,” I said, weeping too hard to stop.
“You caved,” one of my eleven-year old bunkmates hissed as we left her office.
“Jellyfish spine,” another said.Read More