Dentures Be Damned
Mom’s best friend, Jean, lay dying in the hospital. She wanted no visitors. When Mom pressed Jean’s daughter for an explanation, she confided that her mother was embarrassed because she could no longer wear her dentures. My mom, Joan, showed up anyway. Before she entered the hospital room, she reached into her own mouth, removed her dentures and walked through the door, giving Jean the biggest gummy smile she could muster. Even without teeth, the smile was contagious. The ladies erupted into laughter and spent the afternoon reminiscing about their college days and the 60 years of friendship that followed. — Kathleen Perkal
What Matters More
At the grocery store, my 13-year-old son sat cross-legged on the floor beside a display of stuffed animals, making them talk to each other in giggling voices. Minutes earlier, I’d caught myself worrying about the way strangers watched him jerk, stim and grimace, how visible his disabilities have become. The thought filled me with grief so sharp I could barely hold it. Then he looked up at me, laughing, completely unashamed of his joy. I laughed too. Right there, between the cereal aisle and freezer section, I realized love is sometimes learning to let happiness matter more than being understood. — Liz Koch
Surprise Sustenance
After my father’s sudden death, I took to the fridge. I found home-pickled chili peppers in reused jars, chopped garden herbs in labeled Ziploc bags and silver blue fish frozen whole. Ingredients shelved by someone sure that they would come back later. It was three weeks before I could breathe while cooking our noodle soup. Five before our fish. Eight before I could make his favorite Iranian beef stew. As the fridge slowly emptied of him, its contents nourished and helped heal me. Now, whenever I cook, I feel my father’s large, steady hands guiding mine over the frying pan. — Sophia Abolfathi
Clearing My Name
While I was growing up, my family was financially constrained. I tried not to bother my parents about money or errands. When I was 7, I forgot to return my library books “How to Raise Kittens” and “Animalia.” Worried, I never told them. And I never returned to the library. I was a fugitive. Decades later — the books long gone and the kittens never raised — I told my boyfriend. He listened and we laughed at my strange shame. The next week he handed me a receipt: $21 paid to the Austin Public Library. My now-husband had set me free. — Melissa Wile
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