by L. Malik There is a story my mother used to tell. On a belated honeymoon with my father to Kabul, Tehran, and Istanbul from Kampala in 1968, she went to offer her prayers at the Blue Mosque. Svelte in her cotton churidar pajama, she was kneeling in supplication when she felt a sharp tug …
To My Son, at Three Days Everyone who visits says how tiny you are, how little and delicate. But I do not see it. To me, you are larger than the world. You fill my future with a future of your own that extends beyond my years. You fill my vision as I put my …
by Shannon Terrell cartoon duck “Louise, I think the stomach troubles are related to the separation anxiety.” I sit cross-legged on the yellow polka dot couch in Dolph’s office, Game Boy in my lap. My mother sits on the blue loveseat across from me, hands sandwiched between her knees. “Hmm,” says Mom. Dolph leans into …