Collecting Ninety-Two Years of Wisdom

“The silver Swan, who living had no Note, when Death approached,

unlocked her silent throat.” –Orlando Gibbons

It’s some night we’re fighting—or, maybe it’s after a bite-sized disagreement (just a morsel of our routine arguments, just a crumb of our crumbling marriage)—when Husband asks, “Do you hate me because you think I’m like your father?”

I am seated on the hard chair in the therapist’s office with my then-husband to my left. The therapist leans back against his own chair, relaxed, taking notes. My husband leans back comfortably as well. I fidget incessantly from the left to the right, twisting my wedding rings around my finger repeatedly while he speaks loudly and clearly with ease. It is our first appointment, and we discuss the affair I know he is having. But in this office, it is not an affair. Platonic friendship is the chosen narrative here. I cry when I explain why I cannot swallow that story.

This is Not A Photo of My Mom

By Lindsay Lee Wallace

My mom Debbie would have been 67 today. I’m eating scrambled eggs in a green vinyl booth, listening to a little girl across the linoleum count down the minutes until she turns eight while sparkly letters sway on springs atop her festive headband and wish the entire diner a Happy Birthday. She encircles her trove of blueberry silver dollar pancakes with her arms, protecting them from the greedy hands of the other kids packed into her booth and declaring,