Topics | Dementia | The Sun Magazine #7


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The old man is sitting in his newest hole, a big one, half-concealed by the hedge. I squat beside it as he explores the dirt with his hands. Our lawn is a rough and violent landscape; everywhere there are angry holes, wounds that are unable to heal.

By A. Manette Ansay April 1991

Traveling Light

It is 1 in the morning in California, where I live now, 4 a.m. in North Carolina where Grandfather sits in the kitchen. Through the screen door, past a curtainless window, I watch him before entering.

By Kathy Riley February 1990

No Pretty Country

I have not been close to my mother. We have been friendly, conventional, conversational — not close. I felt her love as a black hole, waiting to suck me in. I danced cautiously around its rim. Now it is safe to come close. It always was safe.

By Joyce Allen September 1988
Readers Write


Popcorn strategy, domestic violence, the importance of being cute

By Our Readers November 1987

The Pulse

He is in the pulse, pulsing, pulsing. He is where he belongs, where he is held, so loved. Why did he ever fight this? “Ever have I loved you,” not quite a voice, but he hears it, knows it.

By Maggie Deutschmann Harris May 1987
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Rising Sun Neighborhood Newsletter

I think we should have international coming out day where we gather our assorted courage and tell a few friends or the world The Awful Thing and find out — they already knew and didn’t care, they didn’t know and can’t see what the problem is, they’re shocked but get over it and are bigger in a while . . . or, or, or it’s awful to them too and we lose a friend.

By Anne Herbert June 1983