Gardening for a New Season
“Daddy,” my middle daughter said, “for my birthday I want a pretty garden again.” Two years ago, a tiny lump and “Should I have this looked at?” ended with my wife’s memorial service just after Easter. With the time lost to treatment, arguments and constant worry, the garden had been abandoned. My daughter, with her late-April birthday, didn’t realize how painful the memories were. Yet, I began — pulling weeds, turning soil, planting seeds as my hands bled and I wept. Today, a daisy bloomed and tomatoes appeared. Though the garden is a gift for my daughter, I thank her. — Tom Sunstrom
A Late-Night Run
I woke up with a migraine in the middle of the night. Claire, my new girlfriend, was out of Advil and Tylenol. She layered on outerwear. Laced up her sneakers. “Please don’t go; I’ll sleep it off.” I begged her to not go out into the desolate and dark Brooklyn night. She ran a mile each way to the 24-hour drugstore. When she returned safe and sweaty, she burst in and said for the first time, “I love you. This is what I’m here for.” — Kendra Kobler
Our Sweet Memory
There are few things I love more than cake. My family didn’t have much money while living in India, but whenever I asked, “Whose happy birthday is it?” my uncle, Shyam, would say it was his, then splurge on a little slice of cake. Now I live in the United States, in Houston; there is a pandemic and most bakeries are closed. My uncle died alone in a hospital in Hyderabad; he was only 50. All I can do is sit alone in my room, crying, eating cake. I will always love him more than I love cake. — Kaarthika Thakker
A Wall of Silence
I texted my father — our first message in months — asking if the link he had sent to an online photo album was real. He said it was. I selected the first photo: Two-year-old me, smiling wide, nestled in his arms. I felt nostalgia, guilt, then sadness. I started to text him back but couldn’t find the words. Over the years we had constructed a wall between us, strengthened by every guarded exchange and words left unsaid about our Asian immigrant family, my queer identity. How can we break through a silence that’s been 20 years in the making? — Arthur Chen
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