The baby is awake again. He’s hungry. You feed him, only wincing a little this time. You remind yourself that this is beautiful.
When I was a little girl, I believed in ghosts: I loved the true story collections about doors opening and closing, small children in old fashioned clothes appearing at the foot of someone’s bed, the sudden chill in a room on a lovely summer day, the foggy shape in the corner of a photograph.
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.
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