Keeping Her Shot Glass Collection Alive
Cleaning out cousin Toney’s house cracked me open. Thirteen years older, Toney was like a sister, moving in with my family when I was 5, traveling with me when I won my first writing competition. Now Toney’s gone, unexpectedly dying at 49. “Fentanyl,” read the coroner’s report. Laced Ecstasy. Toney didn’t even drink much, buying shot glasses for their gemlike beauty. I took them all home: the ruby red glass I got her in Montreal, the cobalt blue piece from our time in Saratoga, and the wooden Honduran one she filled with multicolored sea glass I collected for her. — Jeff Dingler
Official Guide: Excellent Husband
Despite my persistent desire to become a writer, I have never felt confident in my own words. In graduate school, I told Omair that I wanted to inspire people. Later that week, he brought home “The Official TED Guide to Public Speaking” and inscribed inside: “The world would be lucky enough to hear the things I get to hear every day.” Whenever I have doubts, I look to the person who treats my words with the reverence of those of a Nobel laureate. If I only ever write for him, I will consider myself to be a successful author. — Mashal Mirza
No Matter How Lovingly Found
We walked along Oregon’s blustery shoreline, my brothers, me and our mom, Emy. Hand in hand, feet soaked and wind-chilled but together. At the tip of the tide lay a white sand dollar. My brother gave it to our mother, who held the perfect circle in her palm, touching it lightly, almost wistfully. She smiled sadly. “I can’t take it with me.” We leave so much behind in death and can take nothing with us except, we hope, love. Twelve days before she passed, our Mama certainly couldn’t bring a sand dollar, no matter how perfectly round or lovingly found. — Mila Phelps-Friedl
Tough and Pretty as a Rock
“They did it again,” I said, pulling strands of gum that kids at school had stuck in my Ogilvie home-permed hair. My father, autistic like me, didn’t make eye contact as he held a split geode in his weathered hands, his fingers sliding over its smooth, glasslike texture. He turned the rock from its pretty, lavender crystal side to its rough, grayish-brown surface. “The pretty stuff is nice,” he said. “But look at its crusty shell. Even if one layer is damaged, the next layer would protect the geode from harm, keeping the sparkly, delicate part of the geode safe.” — Elizabeth Land Quant
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