The Gift of Standing Witness
I was an American living in Berlin; he was an Iranian living in Milan. We were both newly single and at a riverside biergarten. Could he kiss me? I said yes. He asked me to visit. I did. Pretending it was casual, we skied the Alps for my new year and planted balcony flowers for his. He made me salmon with dill rice, and we set out seven items starting with “s,” an Iranian New Year’s tradition. He held me when it ended, witnessing my heartbreak. Now, as American bombs shatter his beloved homeland, I wonder who will witness his. — Lisa Luna
What Counts
We were sharing fries when Mom began her apology. “I lost my mind,” she said. I was 11, my sister 15, when she moved out. “You kept holding onto my legs. I’m so sorry.” I don’t remember that day. I remember the week she spent with my husband and me after our daughter’s birth via surrogacy, the sponge bath she taught us, the hours on the phone after I quit my law firm job, her packages containing cookies. For more than 30 years, she’s been the person I’ve counted on most. “It’s OK, Mom,” I said, and I meant it. — Brad Snyder
A Cozy, Crowded Table
I called it a “grief dinner,” but it was more celebratory than sad. Everyone brought a dish that reminds them of someone they love and have lost. I prepared sardines for my father, my mother’s “sloppy chicken,” my sister’s salad and chocolate chip cookies for my teenage daughter, gone much too soon. We said our loved ones’ names and let food be the gateway to their stories. The people who weren’t there were just as important as the ones who were. I invited eight people for dinner, but there were 20 of us around the table. — Jessica Fein
Richard’s Blue Eyes
I was 30; he was well over 60. My friends said that he was too old for me, that I had a father complex, that it wouldn’t last and that, even if it did, nature would have the last say. But I was so taken with Richard in his pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit, with wavy white hair and blue eyes. Heartbroken when he left me for another. Decades later, when I walked into a deli and picked up the dropped glove of an elderly man in a wheelchair, those blue eyes met mine again, but alas, they didn’t remember me. — Susannah Bianchi
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