ART BY MATILDA PENG 2/3/23My grandma texts me on February 3rd: What ever is available please take that and eat. Don’t be in empty stomach. I also
Dearest Reader, I cannot pinpoint the first time I tried to imitate the world around me through writing. My memories mesh into a single truth:
When I was just 20 weeks old, dancing in my mom’s swollen belly, an ultrasound at Secaucus Meadowlands Hospital revealed my five tiny fingers outstretched for light, waving at my nervous parents. I like to think that from the very beginning, I have been eager to reach out, to converse, and, in those early moments, my little hand became the alphabet and vocabulary I didn’t know yet.
“you don’t get rid of the pain,you just make room for it”shares a six-year-old girlas she narrates the wayshe placed her small handson her mother’s
Across Tufts’ campus, printouts with the words “woman, life, freedom” written in bold, black uppercase are taped to surfaces everywhere—from the windows that lie in
a father leaves his sonwith the words‘i’ll be right back’as his frame turns intoshadowsthat empty out of thefront door.he chooses‘i’ll be right back,’because‘there is a
The autumn sky is a deep black bruise and I drown in its ache. What a strange feeling— for someone who loves words, I can’t