When I was ten, and my sister, Eunice, was eleven, we made a suicide pact. With a rusty hacksaw we snitched from my father’s workbench; we huddled on the wooden…
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if i told you this story, how culturally illiterate would you think i am? * panic had come spurting out and i was looking for a plug to…
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My husband died on a Tuesday morning. It was around eleven when I finished painting the first half of my bedroom ceiling and decided to take a break. I made…
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WOVEN is an Entropy series and dedicated safe space for essays by persons who engage with #MeToo, sexual assault and harassment, and #DomesticViolence, as well as their intersections with mental…
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Image Credit: David Walker I think this is where the story starts, in 2003, in my grandma’s bedroom. It’s nearly midnight. The room is draped in the blue vibrating light…
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Featured Image Credit: University of Texas, Arlington I was sitting in the tall grass, black plastic glasses falling off my face, a headlamp to my side. It was in late…
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Image Credit: Thomas Deininger Face it. Wallace Stevens was sucking up to death when he called her the mother of all beauty. I can’t blame him. My mother was a…
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In July of 1999, I sat on a bench atop the Palatine Hill in Rome, as alone and grief-stricken as I have ever been. I was twenty-one years old, and…
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Excerpted from a memoir. It was a Saturday morning. My son was in Venezuela on a short vacation with my husband, and I wanted to hear my younger son’s voice…