GRANDE DAME LITERARY

Someone’s set my soul loose; I can’t get her back. She’s out there, dancing wildly, wonderfully released. Prior craziness now seems justified—those midnight escapades to the underworld, hoping (like Persephone) to be rid of earthly chores; the foolhardy fearlessness that bared its teeth at friend and foe alike: all symptoms of an overheated heart, surging upward like a volcano, spitting out sparks and toxic fumes from a core of molten energy, the creative source within. It’s

The seats on either side of me appear empty, but I know my mother is sitting in one of them. The scent of her perfume, (why didn’t I ever ask the name? ) blends with that of the white flowers banked on either side of the bima. I can sense her eyes shining with tears. (I cry easily too; we share that.) There was rarely any physical contact—no hugs, no gentle touches–I always wondered why, but I can imagine the soft skin of her face, unlined and glowing even as she turned nine

Her tiny fingers grasp my hand; dark pools of eyes follow me. The first light creeps beneath the curtains. Black curls like tendrils wind round shell-like ears with rose-pink lobes. Outside the world waits impatiently. The dew on the grass is burning off. In the distance, tongues of surf, lick lazily up the wet, smooth sand. Out at sea, white horses fret and foam. I lift my daughter gently from the cot. A tentative smile hovers on puckered lips. My hands support a strengtheni

In a metropolis inhabited by millions, Liz expects to avoid seeing anyone too familiar in her happy space, away from the cacophony of noise in New York City streets. She often escapes into stories finding solace in the pages of books, and making peace with being alone, a single- family unit. She strolls along 34th Street bundled in a Burberry scarf wrapped around her neck like the muffler her mother used to tie when she was a little girl. Entering Barnes and Noble, Liz smells

Lounging on the back patio in the shade of the cool evening, I soak in the relief of the heat dropping away. My attention drifts from the dogs playing in the grass and the tall, cool glass of lemonade in my hand to the story of my past. I can’t help but pinch myself. How is this my life? I didn’t come from a family with a back patio. Instead of watching dogs play in the grass, I’d often hide from a pack of strays fighting on an asphalt road chock-full of potholes. And I never

My former lovers send me many things: old photos, art, mementoes of our lives; if we had wed, they’d give me diamond rings, but nothing of true value still survives. My former lovers praise me to the skies; say that we should’ve married, but instead, we faced the truth, which was to realize that our relationships were, frankly, dead. The Monday morning quarterbacking hurts— why grind this axe, why plow this tired row? Why keep on sending stuff in fits and spurts? Just get it

The lights of the room are too harsh, the pale blue walls swallow any other color, and the cold tile floor is life sucking. The familiar...

Hallie's truck seemed to lean into the music just the way she did, on those last miles of the paved road corkscrewing up into the Sangre...

The Spiritual Practice of Girl DinnerI believe in bread the way some people believe in prayer. In the quiet of a late evening, when the...

Well, yes, we’ve made progress. But we keep fighting the ubiquitous unremitting youth culture and all the stereotypes we’re expected to...

Wherever we are, my mom and I love to go to diners for breakfast. We relish the low-key ambience, the speedy service, and not least, the...

I clicked off the hairdryer. "Oh, shit. No! Where is it?" I came out of the hotel bathroom and saw Maggie frantically searching through...