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By Marie-Eve Bernier  She would playfully ask the same two questions.
“Do you prefer to sit on a rocking chair or a stable armchair?” and “Do you prefer sweet or salty treats?”. This was her failproof ‘scientific’ test to figure which genes her grandchildren had inherited. My grandmother’s maiden name is Fillion, which meant she liked to sit on stable chairs and preferred salted snacks, while my grandfather’s surname is Cloutier, otherwise known for enjoying rocking chairs and having a sweet tooth. She would take great amusement if one of her grandchildren showed traits of both genes, such as if one liked salted chips but also enjoyed a rocking chair.
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Maria Newsom  As executor of my late great Uncle Harry’s estate, my mother inherited a box of short stories. Miraculously, this collection of hand-typed, double-spaced sheets of medium-weight paper survived four cellar floods in my parents’ Brooklyn home. Each time the waters abated, mom was relieved to find the box dry. Still, it never came upstairs. Eventually, my parents moved upstate, and the box moved to a new basement. It still hadn’t come above ground when I visited them last summer and found it downstairs, wedged between rolls of Santa Claus paper and a dust-shrouded set of Encyclopedia Britannica.
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By Bharti Bansal  I am going to be 25 this year.
It sounds like a good number only when you remember that you are at an age when your mother got married. It seems a good deal to me when I realize that at my age, my mother had two kids already. But this isn’t the hard part. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Owen Patterson  I don't have a favorite childhood vacation memory. Although, one vacation does stand out.
In the mid '70s... I was 9 or 10 years old. We vacationed in Orlando, Florida. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By George Leipold  It was an unseasonably warm day in April.
“I can’t go on another walk. We won’t find him.” I said with defeat and exhaustion in my voice. “I know,” said my roommate, “I’ll go.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 Mom’s calendar page boasted a busy week that August when she was living at Napa’s Redwoods, a retirement community. There were the usual events: Bingo, Wednesday luncheon, hair appointment, church. But that week, the activities director had organized two extra bus trips. Monday was a winery visit. Wrapped in the heady perfume of ripening grapes, guests would sample hors d’oeuvres and sip wine against the backdrop of Napa Valley’s lush vineyards. And for my eighty-two-year-old football-loving mother, Tuesday sounded even better. The Oakland Raiders had their summer training camp in Napa; Redwoods residents would watch the Raiders, and then go to lunch.
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By Meaghan Curley  Incandescence by Mehreen Ahmed is equal parts endearing, philosophical, and sentimental.
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 I got the call that my grandmother was dying on a weekday afternoon. It was a sunny spring day, objectively beautiful. I studied the imposing Gothic church outside my apartment window as I listened to my father’s uncharacteristic silence. When he could finally speak, he told me a priest was on his way.
My grandmother had dementia, so the feeling of losing her wasn’t new. I didn’t ask why this moment was declared as the beginning of her dying. I ended the call and got in my car. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By James Lawson Moore  So, a weird thing happened to me the other day.
It was around 3PM, and I just picked up a half dozen unique donuts from this place at the strip mall near my house at school, called Amazing Glazed (corny name, but they have good ice cream and coffee so who’s complaining?). I don’t have a car and my girl had a class down in Norfolk, so I had about a 12-minute walk back to the house, right? I make this trip all the time, so what’s the worry? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 Mary Oliver once said Walt Whitman was the brother she never had. He died more than 40 years before she was born. What is it about art that can make us feel so close to the artist? The ability of one human being to capture the embodied experience of being human in a way that touches the depths of the observer's soul, that allows them to feel understood by a stranger, is a paradoxical kind of intimacy.
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March 2023
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