Kyla Kupferstein Torres
We stumble out of the neurologist’s office. Juan squeezes my hand as we walk to the A train. We don’t talk until we get down into the subway.
Magin LaSov Gregg
When I married her only son ten years ago, my mother-in-law welcomed me into the family. I had no living mother. She had no daughter. Each of us filled a long shadow in the other’s life.
There is a flicker of panic in her eyes as she realizes I am not joking. I give a nervous laugh and bite my thumbnail, not because I’m someone who bites my nails, but because it seems like the gesture of a crazy person
Eklampsis, a lightning etymology I reject. The flashing lights are certainly flashy, and send hospital staff scrambling; but what I really hear is “clamp.” A surging, suppressed.
Love, like loss, doesn’t reside in memory. It doesn’t reside in words or even in story, though those come a bit closer. I know because I’ve watched a little girl grieve and love a man she has no real memory of.
My father is a skilled con man with a deft ear for music, an infectious laugh, and, for several years after my parents’ divorce, was my closest companion. Loving him was tricky, but I was all in. I wandered with him through delusions and bounced checks, choosing to believe his convoluted stories long after I knew they were lies.
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