Maureen Stanton
Maureen Stanton is a writer living in Maine. Her essays have appeared in numerous anthologies and journals, including Creative Nonfiction and Fourth Genre. She talks almost as fast, and almost as much, as her mother.
Evanescence
Everything new disappears, within and without. Alzheimer’s disease is eroding her hippocampus. . . . She has what the neurologist calls “rapid forgetting,” so she lives in a state of evanescence; nothing holds.
April 2022Talk
The sound of air expanding in my chest cavity and then being forced past the catgut of my vocal cords — that’s the sound my mother heard. It was a frightening, ugly sound, but the grief was pure and clean. Against the thickness of it, the viscosity, my mother would segue from soothing words into stories.
May 2002A Summer Of Mowing Lawns
“Murine, is that you?” they’d call from behind the six-foot stockade fence that separated my yard from theirs. I’d come around the fence and see Herbert smiling and Wilda holding a plant. Wilda did most of the talking.
October 1992Night Of Dying
I had known all week that Keith would die that weekend. I knew he wanted me there when he died, not at work, or waiting at a red light, or picking up bread or milk, or waiting in line at the bank. He waited for me.
September 1991Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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