Category: Nonfiction (Page 2 of 12)

A How-To Guide on Decorating Our Christmas Tree

12 December 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry

Look for the gardening gloves in the garage. There will be three pairs, and one has a hole in the palm where needles can enter. Your stepdad will usually volunteer to take that one.
Wrap your arms around the middle of the tree once it’s halfway off the back of the truck. Lift with your legs.
Walk it across the yard and through the front door. Some needles will scrape off the doorframe. Your mom will already be ready with the broom.
Your sister will hold the stand steady while you and your stepdad right the tree and lower it in. There will be four screw bolts on the sides—turn them clockwise until the metal connects with the trunk. Don’t stand up right away, though, as you might need to readjust until your mom and sister deem the tree straight enough.
Decide between two tree skirts. (You’ll always choose the red one.) Connect the Velcro on either side of the stand.
In the blue tub marked X-Mas Lights, you’ll find string lights bundled around a dozen paper towel rolls. Plug one into the wall. Once you find one that works, hold each end on your index fingers and follow your mom as she weaves the green cables through the branches. Start from the top. Be ready to bring the next roll.
Put the fragile ornaments near the top and the wooden ones near the bottom. The dogs will start to sniff the needles as Mom sweeps them; their nose will bring them to the bottom row of branches, and their wagging tails will likely knock a few down.
Most of the ornaments came from your grandparents, your mom will say. Some of them, like the brassy cherubs playing on lyres or the crystalline doves in mid-flight, will be pointed out more than others. Care for these the most.
End with the ornaments in the red and white boxes. One is dated for your parents’ wedding anniversary. Another shows a soccer ball and two hanging cleats from middle school. Two more have a cap and gown for you and your sister. You will not mean to, but the ones for the dogs will go up last. You will always make sure to bundle them close together on the tree.
Decide between the tinsel ribbon or the checkerboard ribbon. (You’ll always end up with the tinsel one.) Follow your mom around the tree as she pinches and curls the ribbon around the ornaments.
Place a few more ornaments. Change a few others. Make sure your name is near your sister’s.
Position the dogs under the tree. Take videos and pictures. They will move, and most of the photos will be blurry, but when you look back on those moments, you will hear your family’s laughter blend with the holiday music in the background.

Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry was born in Puerto Rico and raised with a North Florida accent. She writes fiction and nonfiction about mental health, family, and relationships, and she is currently studying for her MFA at the University of South Florida. When not writing, she can be found cuddling her basset hound.

Nana’s Christmas Cactus

4 December 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by MD Bier

We were always visiting my grandparents. Pop Pop grew roses. Nana grew Christmas cactuses. Every spring and summer they appeared. They took over the breezeway. These long, small white containers a couple of inches high filled with Christmas cactus on every available shelf and open space. They grew so viney draping to the floor.

In winter, they mysteriously disappeared. Vanished. The breezeway too cold for them. Unheated, they would have shivered and died. Don’t know where Nana put them in winter. No one remembers them blooming at Christmas or being displayed on the hutch, coffee tables, or end tables. Every spring they reappeared like magic taking up the same amount of space as the previous summer.

Two of my younger sisters asked Nana for her Christmas cactus. She gave them a few pieces to take home. Those few pieces grew into a huge Christmas cactus. Each sister has pieces of the original and grew their own Christmas cactus. They are now old. Forty, fifty years old. The original older than that. Blooming year after year. Becoming more beautiful the older they get. Elegance in aging.

She has well-grounded roots. No prickly points. Smooth, dark green leaves. Growing high. Bushy. Numerous strands of stems and leaves, some trailing. The oldest stems thick and woody. Not really a cactus. She loves dappled sunlight and lots of talking.

When the birds fly south in September, it’s lights out at five o’clock. A few months of the year, Planty likes it cool and dark so she blooms for Christmas. It’s her winter. Once the first buds appear and as the first double petaled fuchsia flowers blossom, we tell her she’s gorgeous.

Pop Pop’s roses need lots of water, and Nana’s Christmas cactus needs little.

My Nana was low maintenance like the Christmas cactus. Not fussy or prickly. Well grounded. Spunky. Her Irish skin burned in the sun just like her Christmas cactus. Pro anything Irish. Worked hard. Cooked holiday dinners, not everyday dinners. College-educated, well-read, artist extraordinaire. Wished I had asked for her art books. Her vision grew thick and woody like her Christmas cactus stems, and we saw less and less of her after my Pop Pop passed away. Their charm couldn’t charm the grief away. Nowadays, even though Nana is long gone, she showers all our cactuses with her magic, ensuring they bloom beautifully at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Extremely healthy. Age defying. I don’t think when Nana gave my sisters those few pieces of Christmas cactus, she ever expected them to live, let alone create five other plants miraculously still living over half a century later.

MD Bier is a binge reader and always has book. Her writing reflects her passion for social change and social issues. She is part of several writing communities where she writes and studies. She’s published in various literary journals. She resides in NJ with her family and dog.

fresh peaches on brown woven basket — Photo by Mariam Antadze on Pexels.com

Lazy Man’s Pie

22 November 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Marilyn Paolino

What was Lazy Man’s Pie?

Just the other day, I was skimming the Beechwell cookbook, whose thirty-eight yellowed pages easily fit in my palm, when I spotted this pie with a friendly name. Lazy Man’s Pie shared the page with the French cherry and old-fashioned lemon pies.

The recipe looked familiar—except for the name and the stick of oleo. Oleo margarine was popular in the 1950s when Cooking Favorites of the Beechwell Community was probably published. The cookbook came from Aunt Judy’s attic. Before moving, she sent me several boxes packed with family photos, records, and journals dating back to the early 1900s.

Of course! Lazy Man’s Pie was our family’s famous fruit cobbler, I thought.

Dessert first. (Then back to my family project.)

I had a habit of reading cookbooks from back to front, starting with basic bars, cakes, and cookies. Eager to experiment in the kitchen, I began baking when I was nine or ten years old. Dad and I baked together on Sunday afternoons. Nothing fancy. I chose a cake box mix from lemon, white, and orange flavors that Dad liked best.

But we made cobbler from scratch. The recipe was forgiving, unlike pies that required practice to produce crusts with a delectable duo of texture and taste.

My parents were forgiving, loving people. During lunch celebrating their 50^th wedding anniversary, my brother and I asked them what the secret was to a happy marriage.

“There is no secret. It’s hard work,” Mom said, without hesitation.

Her answer left us to reflect on our own relationships. My brother married his high-school sweetheart, and I wed my soul mate decades later. My parents were strong role models who during their sixty-two years together treated one another with respect. They made married life look easy.

Yet, family relationships were often fraught. I heard the hurt in Mom’s voice, some thirty years ago, when she told me my aunt and uncle opposed their marriage. They did so under a loving guise because they served as my father’s guardian, raising him as a son after both his parents died.

Dad’s childhood lacked sweetness because he was orphaned at eight years old. Maybe that’s why as an adult, he craved sweets like fudge, pudding, cakes, and ice cream.

During the holidays, we made a rich chocolate fudge. We relied on the Fannie Farmer recipe, which called for a can of sweetened condensed milk (large) and four and a half cups of sugar.

However, ice cream was an every day treat for Dad. He heaped a generous glob of vanilla ice cream in his oatmeal and a tablespoon in his morning coffee. Usually, he ate a healthy diet, but kept a tub of “cheap” ice cream in the freezer. He lived for 89 years.

Mom grew up during World War II, an era of waste not, want not. She abided by the rule, making sure she ate food before it spoiled. In our house the running after-supper joke was, “Can this leftover be saved?” Yes, and the dish returned to the fridge. Anyone who raised doubts took a spoon and ate the last bites. Either way, we saved the food.

Before the family cookbook arrived, Mom and I had made cobbler after receiving more peaches than we could eat. Mom recited the recipe with ease: one stick of butter, one cup each of flour and sugar, a tablespoon of baking powder, a pinch of salt, and one cup of milk. We preheated the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and melted the butter in the 9 x 13 glass baking dish.

Eager to get baking, we lined up the blemished to bruised fruit on the counter. We washed the fruit and removed the pits. I sucked off the flesh from the pits and thought, waste not, want not. We didn’t bother to blanch and peel the soft peaches whose sticky ripeness covered the counter and dripped from our hands.

In a large bowl, I measured and mixed the ingredients, and poured the cake-like batter over the butter. I plopped the cinnamon-sprinkled peaches in the middle of the pan. Do not stir, that was the secret. I confess, I’m tempted to swirl the fruit around, but learned to trust what I’ve lovingly prepared. Cobbler always tasted better when I used fresh fruit from the farmer’s market. But I have used store-bought canned fruit to satisfy my craving.

In my kitchen, I chose the modest cobbler over pie because it’s welcome at every meal and won’t let me down.

People who claim it’s “as easy as pie” probably haven’t made one. In my hands, crust turned tough and chewy or soggy as if the fruit itself sobbed into the dough. My lattice came out lopsided. And my fruit slicing, layering, and arranging skills lacked pie-filling appeal.

As we cleaned the kitchen, I tried to recall the last time dad and I made cobbler. We used canned cherries swimming in thick syrup.

I checked on the cobbler in the oven as the scent of cinnamon filled the house. About forty minutes later, we had a bubbling, burbling celebration of fresh fruit. I cut a fresh-from-the-oven-corner chunk for each of us and added vanilla ice cream. The Lazy Man’s Pie, with its golden brown, bumpy crust and juicy peach filling, was easy to make, true to its name. We saved the jammy middle for the next day.

Warm cobbler topped with a dollop of ice cream takes me back to my childhood baking days those Sunday afternoons, savoring unmeasured lazy time—simple, sweet, and easy. Dad couldn’t have any cobbler with us that day, but he passed down his recipe for a joyful life: work hard, share love, and forgive all.

Marilyn Paolino is a writer who collects family stories and cookbooks. She had a career in public relations before leaving to write full time. Early in her career, she was a newspaper reporter who accepted all the leftover assignments. She lives in the Philadelphia area.

Rhubarb Pie Day

4 November 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Summer Hammond

The summer I turned ten, Mom made her first rhubarb pie. It happened to be the Fourth of July. And we were Jehovah’s Witnesses.

That evening, Dad propped a ladder against the side of the house. Let’s have an adventure. We climbed onto the roof. Dad, my sister, then me. Mom brought the pie up, nestled in a backpack. We circled around her. She lifted the towel, revealing her masterpiece. Sunset glow, rich ruby juices. Mom, it’s beautiful. Mom, it’s art. She carved the pie into thick, luxurious wedges. We dipped our spoons in, blissful. Sitting together on sun-warmed tiles, cross-legged. A roof-top picnic, sugared crust, and sweet tang of rhubarb. Fireworks bloomed a meadow of sparks over our heads.

We were Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Was it a sin to watch the fireworks?

Even if you happened to be sitting on your roof, eating rhubarb pie?

Was it a sin to watch them, shyly, from beneath your eyelids, from your peripheral, in quick, furtive glances, spoonful after spoonful?

Or was it only a sin to find them beautiful, to want them to go on and on, to see them even with your eyes closed, your lids like dark palettes, the fireworks painting wildflowers across the stars?

We were Jehovah’s Witnesses.

We did not swear our loyalty to any human government. We didn’t vote. We didn’t serve in the military. We didn’t sing or stand for the national anthem. We didn’t say the Pledge of Allegiance.

We did not celebrate the Fourth of July.

We celebrated the pie. We celebrated being happy together.

Every year, from then on, we called the Fourth of July – Rhubarb Pie Day.

In my secret heart, I loved them, and let sin explode.

Summer Hammond grew up in rural Iowa and Missouri, one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. After parting ways with the faith, she went on to achieve a BA in Literature, and earned her MFA from the University of North Carolina-Wilmington. She won the 2023 New Letters Conger Beasley Jr. Award for Nonfiction.

The Things I’ve Carried

17 October 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Sherri Wright

The earless pottery pig my daughter Jenny made in third grade and another creature with kitten ears, a bunny tail and a slit in the top for coins. A ceramic cat I bought in Dubrovnik on a trip with my kids. A white glass bird my husband brought me from Finland. I have lived in many houses. I have moved many times. I have purged. I have decluttered. These things have always come with me.

I have carried a gold dragonfly pin with blue and green enamel wings and red jewel eyes my first husband gave me when he returned from a job interview and told me we were moving. The second chink in our marriage. The first was the previous year when I was pregnant and he told me he didn’t get a PhD to stay home and care for a baby. In that same jewelry box is a coral shell necklace set with nine-year-old Jenny’s penciled note, “Mom, I bought it with my own $$.” And my grandmother’s gold bracelet which she had before she was married (in about 1912).

From Ithaca to Minneapolis to Washington DC and Rehoboth Beach I’ve moved an antique desk with eight turned ball feet and six drawers that I found in a junk shop in upstate New York. My arms have worn the warm cherry grain dull and the knob on the door is gone. But the white porcelain vase in the shape of a girl’s head remains. It was filled with white daisies when my friends sent it to me fifty-three years ago the day my daughter was born. It’s perfect for pencils, scissors, an antique brass letter opener, and multicolored pens and has marked my writing space wherever I’ve lived.

A blue and purple silk print dress that I wore for my second wedding in my parents’ backyard. After 37 years it still fits and so does the marriage.

My spiderman bathrobe in black velour with a burn out design. My grandson named it when he was into action heroes and wore Superman pajamas as we read together in bed. Now, standing in the morning sunshine I see the burn out has taken over the thinning velour and the sleeves are starting to fray. The boy who used to snuggle next to me in this robe has turned twenty.

I’ve carried grainy black and white portraits of my great-grandparents and a picture of their general store from the late 1800s. Also, the handwritten poems my great-grandmother wrote mourning the loss of two infants during an epidemic. They carried these photographs from New York to Indiana to Illinois to Minnesota before my father was born in 1916. I brought them back to the East Coast when I retired. I see when I pull them from the trunk in my guest room that the chalky portraits are faded. The ink on the poems is faint, the edges of the paper tattered and fragile.

I am eighty-one. The things I’ve carried—the pottery pigs, the wedding dress, the dragonfly pin, the glass birds, the photos and letters—will outlive me. They have no monetary value. But will they carry any sense of me?

Sherri Wright belongs to Rehoboth Beach Writers Guild and Key West Poetry Guild. She lives in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where she practices yoga and volunteers for a local food rescue. Her work has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Rat’s Ass Review, Delaware Beach Life, Raven’s Perch, and Quartet.

Hawaiian Sunset

4 October 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Alice Lowe

“You’re going to Hawaii with your ex-wife?” It wasn’t a question, despite the upspeak. The question mark underscored my befuddlement as I woodenly repeated what he’d just told me. A statement of fact, offered up nonchalantly like a gesundheit after a sneeze.

“Yeah,” he said. “Cool, huh?”

Garrett wasn’t my boyfriend, but that’s where we seemed to be heading. We’d worked for the same organization for two years, but in different locations. We didn’t see each other frequently, but we became friends. I met his wife, Willie (can you imagine naming a child Wilhelmina?), on various occasions. We can’t know what any relationship is really like, but they seemed like a happy and compatible couple, so I was mildly surprised when he told me they’d separated.

He and Willie had drifted apart, he said, saw different directions for their lives. I liked that he spoke respectfully and fondly of her, that they remained friends. Over the following months we started spending more time together, hiking in the nearby San Diego mountains, exploring quirky rural towns with musty shops full of bric-a-brac, driving to Rosarito Beach for margaritas and shrimp burritos. We shied from the label, but we were pretty much a couple.

Willie was a flight attendant, and as her husband, Garrett could fly with her at no cost when opportunities arose. She suggested the trip, his last chance, since their divorce would be final soon. “Couples go on honeymoons—this can be our sunset.”

I shrugged off my apprehension. Worse case, they’d get back together, and if so, good for them. My ego might be a little bruised, but I wouldn’t be broken-hearted.

He sent me a postcard from the Kona Coast, “thinking of you.” It made me recall a story my boss at one of my first jobs told me when I made a terrible typo in a letter, one that could have cost us an important client. He tried to assuage my guilt and chagrin by telling me about the man who went to a tropical resort on a business trip and sent a postcard home to his wife: “Wish you were her.”

He brought me a puka shell necklace and showed me pictures of palm-lined beaches and ominous-looking volcanos, himself and Willie sipping rum drinks with orchid blossoms floating on top from shaded decks with ocean vistas. He told me how they were fussed over by amused and possibly envious passengers and crew on the trip over after telling a flight attendant about their “sunset” voyage.

Never very fiery, our relationship gradually cooled. Still friends, we formalized its closure over beers and popcorn at a beach dive. As I recall, it was an overcast day, the sunset barely visible through the clouds.

Alice Lowe writes about life, literature, food and family in San Diego, CA. Recent work has been published in The Bluebird Word, Change Seven, ManifestStation, South 85 Journal, Eunoia, Tangled Locks, MORIA, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. She’s been cited twice in Best American Essays. Read and reach her at www.aliceloweblogs.wordpress.com.

At the Heart of It

29 September 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Sandra Marilyn

Lying in the bed next to you, the summer breeze softly poofing the curtains, the night is so quiet I can hear time moving by without us. My head on your chest. My ear to your heart that beats with the consistency of waves stroking the sand. I want to see inside you. I want to understand how it feels to live inside your body, to see how you manage the life that was fashioned by the uniqueness of your experiences, as different from my own as another language.

Another night voices with edges so sharp they could slice soft belly skin. All my fears, losses, demands, unfilled chasms, unjustified expectations, thicken the air that is already crowded with the sounds of every woman who ever cried before us in the rooms of this antique house. Women in long skirts moaned their sorrow faintly to harmonize with my own. My longing collapses me. Your heart is as closed as your rigid face. Your body backs away from my touch.

Another day you walk through the door after entertaining the neighbor’s blind cat and voluntarily washing the pots and pans they left behind when they rushed out to catch a plane. You sing a high-pitched nonsense song to the silly wag-tail dog, who listens with tall ears. You are gathering your tools to work in the sidewalk gardens you have created just for the joy of passers-by. Your heart is so big I wonder if it will burst through and float away, too huge to be contained. A surreal orb valiantly competing with the sun.

And today I sit in the darkened to gray room in the cardio wing of the hospital listening to the forever buzzing and clicking of the machines that will assess the competency of your heart, the viability of your life. The technician sits at a slight angle between you, reclining on the table, and the monitor where the graphs are changing every second, a festive march of flashing neon colors. Your heart is beating a percussive background in sync with the lightshow on the screen. I shift my chair to see the images over the shoulder of the technician, the images that have no meaning to me beside the riveting spectacle of their color and movement.

And then she finds exactly the right position on your chest and there it is. There is your heart, magnified and magnificent, pulsing on the screen. A splendid red-brown muscle. Squeezing, opening, squeezing, opening, squeezing, opening with a sensuous loyalty.

I was presented with the most precious thing, the most personal thing you could offer me. The very essence of your being, of your spirit, exposing itself to me. I remember the years of needing to see you better, to grasp your true meaning, to see inside your heart. And here in this room hidden away from the street noise and the sunshine, and the people forever grasping for happiness and meaning, I could see inside your heart.

As you lay almost sleeping, hypnotized by the sounds, soothed by the darkened room, unable to see what I saw on the screen, unaware of my emotional journey into your heart. My hand on my own heart, tears gathering, I had never felt closer to you, never loved you more.

In a world of isolated people, Sandra Marilyn cherishes the love that has sustained her. This love has been sending its roots deeper and deeper for decades and yet there is still more to learn, more to feel.

Read more of Sandra’s flash nonfiction essays on The Bluebird Word from October 2022 and June 2024.

red flowering tree — Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

Clare’s Boots

1 September 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Julie Lockhart

I’d never admit in public that it’s OK to benefit from someone else’s hardship, but the black leather Italian boots my friend with cancer recently gave me, make me giddy. Clare received a terminal diagnosis last fall. I wandered around in a shock of sadness for days. She’s doing chemo to keep some of the most horrible symptoms at bay and is responding well.

I visit Clare before Christmas in the new, one-level home that she and her husband quickly bought after the diagnosis. Clare’s elegant taste shows in the attractive décor, open floor plan and view of a well-landscaped garden with forested hills in the background. While we chat, Clare rests on the comfortable, yet chic white couch with colorful patterned throw pillows. She’s thin and pale, yet happy to see me. A young woman helper decorates her Christmas tree. I notice a plentiful pile of gifts awaiting placement under the tree and the arrival of her family. Clare’s husband, Sam, is preparing their dinner, and I wonder how he’s holding up. He looks tired.

Clare is wearing a classy black two-piece warm up, with red piping and a bronze zipper. I love her haircut, shorter on one side, with the rest of her brown hair sweeping across her nicely chiseled features. Clare shares about family visits, making amends, and doing what she can to enjoy the life she has left. My heart swells to witness her strength.

Our conversation moves to the things she can’t wear anymore. She lifts a swollen ankle for me to see and mentions she’s looking for someone who wears size 8.5 shoes. My hand shoots up like a schoolgirl. She leads me into her well-organized closet filled with sophistication reflecting years as a successful businesswoman.

Turning to a floor-to-ceiling shelf, she starts pulling out shoes and boots—all designer. I’ve never spent that kind of money on footwear. I step into three pairs of casual sandals, and check to make sure she wants me to have them. Then she pulls out the Italian boots. My belly flutters with glee as I slip them on. They fit perfectly. Smooth black leather envelops my foot, with a low heel, quilted boot fabric rising up my leg, leather again at the top, and a buckle in back—mid-calf height. Perfect. I don’t want to appear greedy for more, so I put the sandals and boots in a paper bag she has given me and express my thrill and gratitude.

When I get home, I don my skinny jeans and pick up the boots to look closer. They’re lined with a silky-feeling plaid fabric. I pull both on, run my hands down each, and walk out of the closet to show them off to my husband. He loves them too. Later that evening, we head out to dinner, and I again put on the cozy boots. Walking from the parking lot down the street to the restaurant, I picture myself looking stylish, like I’m taking something of Clare’s essence with me—her big heart with an ethos of right action and generosity, especially for kids’ causes. In her boots, perhaps I can walk a little closer to understanding and supporting her journey.

I wonder why I’ve never bought myself nice boots like this. I experience delight with every step and in every place I go. Spending my shopping time in consignment and discount stores, I scour everything for a good deal, even though my mother taught me to love designer clothes. A few lean years in my career led me to frugal spending habits. Yet my finances in retirement no longer require that I be so stingy with myself. I imagine myself boot shopping, and wonder when things in the downtown stores go on sale. Maybe it’s time to loosen up and buy myself nicer attire regardless of discounts.

With the holidays behind us, I make a quick visit to give Clare a poetry book that I hope she and her husband will find meaningful. I hesitate to put the boots on, and choose something else, not wanting to flaunt what she could no longer wear. She looks radiant when I walk in, like she’s gotten her vitality back. I observe the loving interaction between Clare and Sam. He looks good, too—brighter, with a big smile.

The three of us launch into a short but deep conversation about what’s important in life. Sam says, “No bullshit, every moment is precious.” Agreeing, I can see that the two are growing through this difficult time together—with grace and caring. The love between them sings so sweetly. It’s true that we never really know what tomorrow will bring. Looking from one to the other as they talk makes me grateful to witness glimmerings of their process.

I am about to get up to leave when Clare asks for a favor. “Of course,” I respond.

Clare wears a sheepish grin before asking. “You know those boots I gave you? Well, my ankles aren’t swollen anymore, and I’m wondering if I can get them back? I have athletic shoes, but nothing for my nicer clothing.” My heart sinks into my belly for a brief moment—oh those beautiful boots. Yet a few seconds later, I feel elated that she has experienced physical improvement—enough to wear her Italian boots again. Clare apologizes for wanting them back.

Smiling, I say “Absolutely. I will bring them over tomorrow.”

This morning I again slip on the boots that give me such pleasure. I take a deep breath in, with an intentional outbreath of letting go. Material things don’t mean anything next to the treasure of Clare’s friendship and trust in me during this difficult journey. I can buy my own boots. I pull them off one by one, run a little shoe polish over their surface to cover some scuff marks, and slide my feet into my consignment shop clogs.

Julie Lockhart loves an adventure in wild places. Her essays have appeared in The Journal of Wild Culture, bioStories, Feels Blind Literary, Women on Writing Essay Contests, and Minerva Rising. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Julie lives in Port Townsend, WA. Find her online at: julietales.com.

Farewell, in black and white

1 September 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Cheryl Sadowski

We rode the Central Park carousel all summer. By winter, the painted horses and gilded carriages stood still. To be part of B’s life in the suburbs is what mattered more than anything now. Arrangements were made, boxes packed, and on a dishwater day in January, the moving truck rolled down West 58th Street with my meager belongings.

I spent the last night in my empty apartment alone, lying on an air mattress staring at electric outlets. I listened for the familiar, persistent clang of the trash chute, the groan of pipes. Oddly, nothing. Only black silence and the dim glow of barren white walls. New York City seemed intent upon my leaving without a nod. Across the courtyard rows of windows darkened and blurred, and eventually I fell asleep.

Snow fell all night, thick and gauzy as cotton candy. I woke in the mauve morning light to find the windows frosted over. I threw on clothes and boots, grabbed my coat, and stomped through meringue drifts toward Central Park. Inside the park, sienna tree limbs bowed beneath white icing and black streetlamps tipped their tall, snow top hats. This was no cold, curt goodbye, but farewell on the most elegant and grandiose scale. The city had seen me after all, and she made sure I knew.

I spun around, eyes watering, and cleared off a park bench to sit down. Life with B. could wait an hour, or two.

Cheryl Sadowski writes about art, books, landscape, and nature. Her essays, reviews, and short fiction have been published in Oyster River Pages, The Ekphrastic Review, Vita Poetica, After the Art, and other publications. Cheryl holds a Master in Liberal Arts from Johns Hopkins University. She lives in Northern Virginia.

green leaf plant — Photo by Anton Atanasov on Pexels.com

Impossible Love

1 September 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Leslie Lisbona

Mom and I were talking. “I know what you mean,” she said. I didn’t have to explain much and somehow she understood. She got me in a way no one else did. She used to say, recalling Oscar Wilde, “Take away all my necessities and give me only luxuries.” But for me, having this mom—my mom—was everything. I didn’t need anything else but her.

I was unmarried and about to turn thirty. My boyfriend lived in Mexico, and if I married him, which everyone wanted, I would have to leave her and live there.
Mom and I sat side by side on the couch. I held Paul Auster’s book, Leviathan, on my lap. We had both just finished reading it. “I want to go to the Strand during the week,” I said.

“I’ll meet you there after work,” she said.

We both sighed simultaneously, and this made her laugh.

With my toe, I pushed the ashtray a few inches over on the coffee table. It sat unused and shiny since she had quit smoking. Still, her asthma came suddenly sometimes, and the furniture had a faint smell of cigarette smoke. She examined her nails and looked disappointed with them.

“Shall we go to a movie together?” she half-whispered.

“Yes!” I said, and I reached for New York Magazine to do research. I found My Fair Lady in the city.

“Let’s go now!” she said.

I ran upstairs to get ready. I felt like I was five and someone had handed me an ice cream cone. Afterwards, on the drive home on Queens Boulevard, we sang “I could have danced all night” as we both looked straight ahead.

It wasn’t long after this that I lost her—with no warning. Her not being with or near me was inconceivable. I married a year later, someone I really loved and who lived nearby. We have two grown sons. But the luxury of having someone who understands me so deeply remains elusive.

Leslie Lisbona has been published, most recently in Wrong Turn Lit, The Bluebird Word, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. In March, she was featured in the New York Times Style section. She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY.

Category: Nonfiction (Page 2 of 12)

A How-To Guide on Decorating Our Christmas Tree

Nana’s Christmas Cactus

Lazy Man’s Pie

Rhubarb Pie Day

The Things I’ve Carried

Hawaiian Sunset

At the Heart of It

Clare’s Boots

Farewell, in black and white

Impossible Love

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