Topics | Divorce | The Sun Magazine #5

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Divorce

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

There’s No Such Thing As A Free Association

As children of a psychoanalyst, my brothers and I were brought up with three basic beliefs: everything has some deeper significance, there is no such thing as an accident, and never buy retail.

By Lad Tobin September 2010
Readers Write

The Last Word

A pair of rainbow-striped socks, a cassette tape, the San Francisco Marathon

By Our Readers August 2010
Readers Write

Fences

Access to water, a moose disappearing into the trees, the Israeli security fence

By Our Readers August 2009
Sy Safransky's Notebook

October 2008

My daughter Mara is getting married next week — my daughter who is in her thirties now, not her twenties; not a teen; not a young child crossing the street for the first time; not an infant I rock in my arms at 3 A.M., too tired to think straight, the sleepless nights stacked up like planes in a holding pattern, the pilots growing drowsier and drowsier. Wake up! She’s getting married!

By Sy Safransky October 2008
Fiction

The Fisherman

Last winter started out really bad. The Buffalo Bills went to their first Super Bowl and lost to the New York Giants. For Valentine’s Day, Margaret Trafalcanti took me into the coat closet at school and let me kiss her on the lips and the throat and put my hand on her hip, but then she didn’t talk to me for the rest of the year.

By Christian Zwahlen July 2008
Fiction

Everything, All At Once

My mother lives on the tenth floor of a high-rise that overlooks New York Harbor from a New Jersey bluff. She leaves only to shop, to return half of what she has bought, and to eat lunch at the Quick Check. She has not been hiking or on lichen or lichen-adjacent since before I knew she had a vagina. Her adventures are happy hours in the penthouse bar, where she counts the freighters and container ships with Al, a retired sea captain.

By Austin Bunn June 2008
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

With Eyes Open

My ex-husband is dying. A year and a half ago he was on the telephone with someone, and suddenly words vanished from his brain. English became a language he’d once known but had forgotten. The memory of those things called “words” was still there, but they were lumpy, pale, and almost unrecognizable, like dust-sheeted furniture in a mansion’s unused rooms.

By Lois Judson September 2007