Letting the Light In
I was 16 years old and gay. Alone. Except for depression, my constant companion, joining me in bed, waiting for the day’s end. The light was on. I raised my fist to shield my eyes, but light slipped through and found me. So I surrendered and played along. My hand contracting and releasing, light dispersing through my fist like a kaleidoscope. A decade later, I met Lucy. My soon-to-be girlfriend’s sole tattoo was of a fist inside a lightbulb. I like to think it was her light that had slipped through time to comfort me on my longest day. — Lena Munzer
Explaining Love
My toddler insists that I climb into his crib each night. I wedge myself between him and the rail, and I prop my feet on a mound of stuffed animals. We look into each other’s eyes. “I love you, Niam.” “Mama, why do you love me?” I’m caught off guard, never having had to explain love before. “Because you’re sweet and cute,” I say. “I love talking to you, hugging you, kissing you and spending time with you.” He is silent, contemplating the meaning of love. Then he says, “Mama, I love you.” — Mansi Kothari
Second Soul Mate
I told my dying wife, Karen, that I was going to buy a cemetery plot. She said to get three. “One for me, one for you and one for your second wife.” The epitaph on our headstone is the Yiddish word “bashert,” meaning “fate” or “soul mate.” When Jill’s husband, Ron, was dying, he told her to keep going to the gym so she would look good for her second husband. Jill and I are confident Ron and Karen would be happy Jill still looks hot and, more importantly, we have found our second bashert. — David Pressel
My Best Backup
The office holiday party looms. Over text, I joke to my best friend that I should bring a date skilled in politics. A tricky colleague had been spreading rumors about me; I didn’t want to have to squash the rumors alone. “PUT ME IN COACH,” my friend texted back, immediately. “I was BORN for this.” She was furious for me about my colleague — had been all year. But she promised to behave at the party. “Like a GOOD MOB WIFE,” she wrote, “I will be ALL SMILES.” Who needs a politician when you’ve got a Soprano? — Chiara Eisner
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