A Lifeline During Wartime
Multiple civilian deaths from Russian airstrikes. I WhatsApped Kostya in Ukraine. “We’re fine,” he writes, his standard reply. Then, “How are you?” and “Mom says hi.” Back when he and I were “we,” I didn’t always get a response. When we broke, he ghosted hard. I left Ukraine never knowing why. Our reconnection — a byproduct of war. For 1,280 days, we’ve been in considerate contact. When fighting’s fierce, he writes so I know he’s alive. He sends jokes, compliments, new schemes to meet after the war. Peace talks falter. Battles rage. I eye my phone, wary of WhatsApp silence. — Alex Poppe
Your World or Mine?
The clock strikes 6 a.m., and I’ve watched Paul sleep for nearly an hour. It’s the only time he seems helpless, incapable of hurting me. Before I parachuted into his Los Angeles world from Minneapolis for the weekend, he insisted on keeping things casual to make long-distance work. But that condition didn’t stop me from imagining our future together, once we could commit to FaceTiming more than three times a day. I start kissing his body, but he complains it’s too early. He turns over, and I cuddle him back to sleep. It’s too late for me; I love him. — Jamie Valentino
The Ceaseless Tide
Pay attention to how Camilo floats in the tide pool, bobs over and lets you hold him, surrendering weight to your arms. Pay attention to how he gallops, plops onto sand and digs. Pay attention to the blue, cloudless sky, the white line of breaking waves on the horizon, the salty water enveloping your skin. From the beginning of his life, you were humbled: a pandemic birth, husband not permitted into hospital, your mother unable to fly. Time seems to stretch forever; it’s not true. You check the calendar and suddenly five years have passed, multiple shoe sizes outgrown. — Emily Dittmann
Layers of Love
Dad’s hand-wrapped sandwiches could survive a flood. In fifth grade, my favorite was his “specialty”: cheese and jelly on white bread. Crafted with precision and cut on a perfect diagonal; he’d fold it into wax paper, wrap it in aluminum foil, tuck it into a plastic bag and then entomb it in my metal lunch box. Dad was an ex-military man; perhaps that explains those layers of defense. Unwrapping his sandwiches during lunchtime made my friends snicker, but, to me, it was like opening a delicious present. My sandwich always arrived safe and dry. Mission accomplished. Thanks, Dad. — Terri Webb
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