The Monthly Theme Essays are a collection of essays written each month on a predetermined theme. These essays are always published during the last week of the month. To submit a Monthly Theme Essay check out our upcoming themes.
Interested in sponsoring one of our monthly themes? Check out our media kit.
February 22
We celebrate my son's eighth birthday. To my delight and surprise, it goes off without a hitch. Usually, weeks of anxiety precede his birthdays. Inevitably, great expectations turn to disappointment and anger when things don't go exactly as planned. Not infrequently, parties end with his screaming at his friends, stomping upstairs, slamming his door as I apologize and usher bewildered parents out of the house.
Read More“I’m broken,” I tell Tamar. My breath is ragged. My heart races. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“You don’t have to,” she replies.
I jump off my bike and sit down by the side of the trail. Digging my fingernails into my skin, I draw blood to distract from the pain.
Read MoreApril 18: At the desk of Highway Contract Route 74, I survey my daily load of letters, flats, and parcels. Utility bills, unemployment checks, hardware and furniture catalogues, scores of envelopes from the offices of politicians and Department of Motor Vehicles. And thin, white, padded envelopes the size of my palm all the way from China and Krygyztsan to California, pill bottles, baby toys, pet food, books, clothing returns (including Spanx), even a pyramid of plastic Tupperware wrapped tightly in transparent film with a set of stamps stuck on top and a tub of laundry detergent marked Priority Mail—Signature Required.
Read MoreMy dad sat in his favorite chair looking at me, his eyes glistening and unable to focus. He could no longer remember my name or form a coherent sentence. Suspenders held up the pants that no longer fit his waist because he had become so frail and thin. Dementia had stolen his mind and Parkinson’s disease had weakened his body. When his eyes were finally able to focus on me, I thought I saw a glimmer of recognition, but with dementia, you can never be sure.
Read MoreParis is still in confinement, and I’m still jogging early every morning. Each day, I get a little more daring, moving well beyond my permitted one kilometer from home. I pretend not to notice when a police car cruises past me on a side street. I look straight ahead when it stops by a man walking on the opposite pavement, breathing relief that they pick him, not me. We are only allowed out for one hour a day, and without the correct paperwork to prove our identity, the fines are steep. At worst, we will be thrown in jail.
Read More
