Weekly Featured Essay
We post a day after Mother’s Day in the spirit that our mothers are always our mothers, and we are always their children, no matter the passage of time or the changes of our lives. Enjoy this sweeping, honest essay by one the truly important journalists of his generation.
by J. Malcolm Garcia
The reporter sat in the living room and waited for the coroner to arrive and pick up his mother’s body. A hospice nurse had checked her blood pressure and listened to her heart just forty-eight hours earlier and had told him she was fine. One-twenty over eighty, the nurse had said. She then asked his mother if she knew the day’s date. His mother stared across the room at the pink clay tiles of the patio, upended by burrowing chipmunks and now barely discernible in the overcast evening, and the look on her face reminded the reporter of a moment in sixth grade when he had not done his math homework and his teacher, Miss Fowler, asked him questions he could not answer and gave him an F. After a long silence, his mother replied, February 19, 1917, her birthday. I’m ninety-eight, old, old, old, she said. No, the nurse replied, it’s November 24, 2015. The reporter’s mother said nothing. Do you know where you are? The street you live on? Home, his mother answered, I’m home, her voice flat and distant, a fearful look in her eyes as if she knew this, too, was incorrect.
This morning, just two days after the nurse’s visit, the reporter’s mother had felt nauseated and a home healthcare assistant, Cathy, helped her into a wheelchair and took her to the bathroom. Once there, she said she’d like to lie down and Cathy helped her to her room. She got into bed and fell instantly to sleep. Her breathing became labored and Cathy called the reporter, who had been reading in another room. He hurried in and Cathy suggested he call the nurse and when he got off the phone he saw his mother had stopped breathing. He swallowed and the noise in his throat sounded very loud and he just stared at her and called her name three times and Cathy started crying. When the nurse arrived, the reporter told her his mother was gone and she followed him to the bedroom with its flowered wallpaper and faded photographs of New York and Puerto Rico and pressed a stethoscope against her chest. Tree branches clattered against a window by a rocking chair. She’s gone, the nurse said as if the reporter had not told her.
On Want and Need
by Susannah Q. Pratt
It isn’t normal to know what we want. It is a rare and difficult psychological achievement. — Abraham Harold Maslow
“Oh,” say people who hear about our decision to refrain from shopping for a year. “How great. So, like, you’ll just be buying the things you need.”
Yes, it would seem. Though I am no longer sure.
by Patricia Feeney
I was seven when I learned I had an older sister, a girl who didn’t belong to my mother.
The secret sister orbited on the margins of my 1950s world. She appeared at family gatherings, trailing behind my paternal grandparents. She hung quietly on the perimeter of our crowded family, her spectral presence enveloping my childhood. I didn’t concern myself with who Karen was. I only took note of her interest in my grandmother, whose attention I hoarded.
“Ain’t that something?” my grandmother would say with raised eyebrows if a neighbor complained the mail was late or the man down the street was caught picking through trash cans in the alley. She thought most people were petty, stupid, or both. I was delighted with her irreverent comments and always agreed with her.
When I visited her, we feasted on potato chips and daytime soap operas that played in black and white on her Motorola TV. I couldn’t follow the plot lines of Guiding Light and The Secret Storm, but I snuggled against my grandmother, who extended an arm across my lap and let me flick its flabby triceps, the cool, white flesh slapping back and forth. I was mesmerized.
Karen was two years older than Billy, my oldest brother, four years older than Tommy, my second brother, and five years older than I. She was so much older than my other siblings, they have no memory of her visits. Occasionally, Karen’s arrival to our home led to a sleepover; she slept with me in a narrow top bunk in the room I shared with my two older brothers. Our bungalow in Glasgow Village, MO, had not an inch to spare for Karen’s comfort. The three tiny bedrooms brimmed with seven bodies, and we all competed to use the single bathroom.
by Gabriel Sage
From my back, lying on the only corner of the rug not pinned under the burden of furniture legs, I realize I have stopped writing in past tense. At first the idea seems weightless, an accidental thought hovering without meaning—the chance product of my afterhours-brain meandering promiscuously through late-night thoughts. But then it gains effect and gravity, sits full bore on the forefront of my mind, taps me enigmatically with a reflex hammer. I look up to try and bring the thought into focus, but there is only the dense stillness of the house and the thick inky darkness of unlit morning sticking to the outside of the window. I take a quick mental inventory of my recent writing to test the idea: I find no was or were, only is and are. Frowning, I wonder if there is undiscovered significance here and roll onto my stomach, pressing up onto my elbows. Below me, an indentation of matted fibers is recessed from where my body had just been.
To my right, a messy stack of records leans against a small metal rack that is home to a turntable. The record playing is Either/Or by Elliott Smith. A black spiraling chord reaches from behind the console and connects to bulky headphones pressed over my ears. I am enveloped in haunting vulnerability and whispering melodies that tear with candor from the stark but ethereal music. I listen carefully to the reverberating tones until the last chord of the song decays into a gentle hum. A soft looping click, not unlike the whir of moving water, signals that it is time to flip the record. I obey, lift the opaque plastic cover, carefully handle the vinyl by its edges, and lower the crystal stylus softly back into the thin spiral of grooves.
Modesty and Other Provocations
by Amy Roost
Frustrated, yet disciplined, I throw back the covers and rise from the warmth of my bed. I make coffee, feed my confused cats their treats, open my laptop at the dining room table and begin taking dictation on the intrusive thoughts that have kept me tossing and turning all night. Although I’m a night owl by nature, early morning is my favorite time of day to write. The apartment is peaceful, interruptions are few, and there’s the reward of the soft light at dawn that makes anything seem possible.
I chose writing as my second career because I wanted to ‘be the change’ by shining a light on social injustice. The hours are long and the pay sucks, but it feels like I’m finally making a difference in the world instead of merely collecting a paycheck. I spend three hours getting good work done before reluctantly heeding the “time to stand” notification my iWatch keeps sending me. Thinking of Einstein’s advice on the importance of doing nothing as a way to generate creative ideas, I go out for a walk. It’s a crisp October day and I head toward the harbor. A gentle onshore breeze combs my skin and I feel the burden of multiple deadlines begin to lift. At the two-mile mark I stand before the rippling sails of The Star of India, an old clipper ship that graces San Diego’s bayfront. I take in several deep breaths of briny air before turning around and heading for home, and more work.
by Amy Suzanne Parker
The dense gusts outside of my apartment conjure black clouds that amass overhead. It’s 3 a.m., August 28, 2015, and I can’t help but ingest the blackness around me. Like drinking ink, venom. There is a tropical storm, Erika, in the Atlantic Ocean, gaining strength. Together, she and I whirl in the darkness.
I awake from a vivid nightmare of past sexual abuse. Flashes of my grandpa’s hands on my seven-year-old body and a blue condom keep appearing in my mind, while the tropical storm surges in my head. Erika sweeps her skirt in a spiral in my skull. Soon I find myself in the bathroom, the cap of the Klonopin bottle off, the bottle tilted toward my open hand, a bottle of SmartWater to wash it all down. After the pills, the vodka in the pantry. I read somewhere that the combination of benzos and alcohol is fatal.
I put the cap back on the Klonopin bottle, dress as quietly as possible, grab my purse and keys so I don’t wake my sleeping boyfriend who works two jobs, and plug “Tampa General Hospital” (TGH) into my phone for directions.
by Tim Bascom
I have a vague memory of curling up in the carpeted footwell of a car when I was only three or four, back in the days before seat belt laws. I think I fell asleep down there with the warm purr of the engine, oblivious to the problems of the outer world, problems that were for adults to resolve, not me. And later, when I was on family vacations as a ten- or eleven-year old, I clearly remember getting tired of sitting between my two sweaty brothers then throwing my chubby pre-pubescent body over the back seat into the luggage area of our Rambler station wagon, where I sprawled across the duffle bag that held our canvas tent and across the flannel sleeping bags. The Rambler swayed and rumbled. I could see out the rear window to the stars, which glittered in the immense sky, flickering as we passed under silhouetted trees. And I dozed off without thought or worry. Limbs loose. Free of pain. Hair whirling in the breeze from an open window. Without a care.
by Joe Dworetzky
“Are you the one?”
“This is Jim Fitzgerald,” my voice mail said. “I’m looking for a Joe ‘Doorsky’. If you are him, please give me a call. It’s about Kensico Little League.”
Kensico Little League?
Kensico was where I played baseball as a boy. My family moved away more than thirty years ago. I had never heard of Jim Fitzgerald.
I called him back and gave my name.
“Which one?” I asked.
“The one who played Little League in Valhalla, New York.” “Yes, I’m that one.”
Like what you’ve been reading? All the fine essays published throughout the history of the magazine can be accessed via the contributors/archives page.
Want even more? Here are links to our two most recent issues:
Work from twenty-two fine writers. You will be transported into war zones, alongside horse tracks, within homeless shelters and food kitchens, laundromats and trailer parks. These true stories will inspire, enrage, provide hope, and change your perspective.
A full-bodied, eclectic issue featuring twenty-five essays.
Don’t Forget to Check out Our Anthologies
Encounters features fifteen eclectic essays originally appearing in bioStories magazine, all focused on some of those chance encounters that can transform our lives.