The Monthly Theme Essays are a collection of essays written each month on a predetermined theme. These essays are always published during the last week of the month. To submit a Monthly Theme Essay check out our upcoming themes.
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What was her name? I remembered her face. Clear blue eyes, blond hair cropped above her shoulders, that toothy smile. I couldn’t help but return that smile. Sitting at my computer, I tried all the keywords I could think of but could find only her supervisor who worked in the same museum, the man who had joined us on that expedition south. Her name was gone. Only the image of that broad smile remained in my mind.
Read MoreI walk into a bar to meet some friends and you’re sitting at a table with some work colleagues. You see me before I spot you, but when I do, the spark of recognition warms me to my core. You rise like the sun and walk toward me, your blue eyes scanning my face. “Darlin,” you whisper, “it’s so good to see you.” We embrace, holding on a beat longer than a casual hug. After we separate, we stay close enough to kiss, but we don’t, we can’t. Kissing is outside the boundary you set years ago, in another bar, on another night.
Read MorePUP TENT: A-frame, two persons, flap door with ties, 1974.
First, my memory, not Dad's. When I was almost five and my brother was a newborn, we had an army-green canvas tent, a hollow wedge with low sloping sides that felt safe and cozy.
Read MoreAfter checking in with the receptionist at the HR front desk, a glance at the waiting area—consisting of four pleather arm chairs the color of weak coffee, one mini loveseat (a tight fit for two grown adults) and two swivel-back-office chairs situated at computer drop-down terminals—tells me that every place to sit is already occupied.
Read MoreHead bowed, pen in hand, I sit in my sundrenched office, pondering a young staff member’s 2001 performance review. How to suggest a change of attitude in a constructive way? That’s what I’m thinking about when the phone interrupts. I’m not prepared for a life-changing call.
Read MoreI once saw the entirety of my own tragedy pass, in a single moment, through the eyes of an old man. It was at my going away shindig. Our going away shindig–my housemate Scarlett’s and mine. She was leaving to pursue her PhD at my own old stomping grounds in San Diego. And I would travel to Oregon to attempt a second bachelor’s degree in an entirely new subject. So we would leave behind the Lorrain Street house, a slightly derelict semblance of a modest mansion in old Austin, Texas.
Read MoreYou lived at 357 Woodruff Avenue for over fifty years, growing up in your tree-like way, as I did in my human one. I had turned eight when I first saw you, gracing the northeast corner of our backyard, standing tall in front of the wall which divided our large backyard in two. Behind this wall there were fruit trees that gifted us with apricots, oranges, and plums in the summer. You were a maple, so we didn’t get to eat the fruit or seeds you produced, but your many gifts to our family were just as welcomed.
Read MoreWhen I meet her, she’s leaving. An hourglass flips the second we make eye contact. This is the first reading she’s ever attended. I don’t know this yet. She looks at home leaning against the stacks in that Park Slope bookstore, wearing those almost-overalls with her arms loosely crossed. Her nails are short, their black polish chipping. She stands alone, which I like.
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