Introducing Uncle Jay
My daughter’s birthday falls three days after my late brother’s. Every July, while I hang lanterns and fill gift bags, grief flashes through me. My daughter is 6 and doesn’t know she should have an Uncle Jay. He was nine years my junior, a boy I mothered, adored and eventually couldn’t save from untreated schizophrenia and suicide. I thought telling her about him would only pass down pain. But grief is not the whole story of his life, or our bond. Soon, I will tell my daughter about my brother, confident that I’ll also be able to pass down love. — Ashley Womble
‘Steady as the Sun’
I called my high school friends Anvi and Ashwini in a full, hiccuping meltdown over nothing, a PMS spiral that felt stupidly enormous. Now roommates, both happened to be working from home. Twenty minutes later, they were at my door. No questions, just action: They pulled me out of bed, put shoes on my feet and drove me to get ice cream. We relaxed in the grass in Dolores Park, sharing two pints, watching San Francisco buzz around us. They sat beside me, steady as the sun above, reminding me, without saying a word, that I was never alone. — Kaanthi Pandhigunta
He Saw Me Before I Could
Fifth grade, hazel eyes, curly hair, honey-toned skin. I was infatuated with him, already tailoring plans for us to fall in love. I confessed my feelings. He gently replied, “Tiff, you’re like my boy; you don’t really see me that way, do you?” Years passed, his question lingering in my mind. Then one day, walking along the boardwalk, hand in hand with my girlfriend, I saw him again. I smiled, introducing them. His hazel eyes brightened with happiness when he saw that I had found myself and my sexual identity, something he seemed to understand long before I ever could. — Tiffany Pippins
Never Too Old to Be Mothered
I thought I wanted to be alone with my husband after my son was born, but then my mother brought me breakfast in bed — banana pancakes, right off the stove, with warmed syrup on the side. She cut them into pieces so I could eat with one hand while holding the baby. They tasted so good that I cried. Today we were with my son at the park. As I chased him with his hat, my mother asked, “Did you get sunscreen on?” “Yes, just need to get his legs,” I said. “Not him,” she replied, smiling. “You!” — Virginia Craig
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