Topics | Grief | The Sun Magazine #3

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Grief

Poetry

FaceTime

I held an iPad for Miguel as he lay in his hospital bed / so he could see his family sheltered at home. / He was suffocating, this man who at the worst of times / would only tell his loved ones, Me siento bien. / All around us the equipment of life / and death was buzzing, humming, beeping, / a stubborn choir of mockingbirds.

By Peter Young November 2021
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Between Notes

I add thirty-eight points to Dad’s side of the scorecard. “You’re kicking my ass,” I say. He gathers the cards and begins to shuffle, his hands clumsy, the cards slipping out onto the table. “Let me,” I say, but he says he can do it, that it’s his turn.

By Emily Rinkema October 2021
Readers Write

Brothers

The good-looking one, the one in need, the one that almost was

By Our Readers October 2021
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Better

My eyes filled again. Filippo came by and murmured, “Think of the little light in your chest,” and somehow I understood him. I don’t know how. I let the light shine.

By Michelle Herman September 2021
Fiction

Lawrence The Enormous

Slowly, Heidi finished the last of her champagne. She wiped her lipstick from the glass with her thumb, and something stirred inside Lawrence.

By Chelsea Baumgarten September 2021
Readers Write

Sisters

The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school

By Our Readers September 2021
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Ungrown

The cataracts give her an otherworldly countenance, like a blind prophet who gazes more easily into the past than into the present. She is otherworldly, because she isn’t a part of this time where I dwell — not fully. She floats closer to us and then away again before we can grasp her.

By Sarah Broussard Weaver August 2021
Tribute

A Tribute To Chris Bursk

The selection that follows — just a small sample of the fifty-plus poems of his that have appeared in The Sun — display the heart and honesty that first drew us to Chris’s work in 1977. A self-described “compulsive writer,” Chris once said, “I do not wait for inspiration. . . . Some days I watch the page until a few words come — and then I find myself inside the world they invite me into.” That world will be missed.

By The Sun August 2021
Fiction

Deep Eddy

They fished three tournaments together without breaking the top fifty before I told him to sign me up as his partner instead. At least I knew the difference between monofilament and fluorocarbon. I mean, damn.

By D.T. Lumpkin August 2021
Poetry

Before

It’s not as though I was going on dates, gorging / on the daily bread of sex, before the governor told us all / to stay home.

By Jane Hilberry June 2021