Nov/Dec 2022

my life tiny, my life tiny / underneath / these dry strata

she can’t hear the wings and you want to cry, she never looks when you point and yell “‘beauty, beauty'” at the sky.

I want to say I tended you too. / I want to say I was a gardener

In Mothercare, Tillman shares truths as she sees them, and the result is a sometimes-gritty read that offers advice and resonance for adult children caring for an ailing parent.

Readers will see in this book how love is investigated, embraced, and exuded through Christman’s grief, trauma, marriage, and parenting. 

The lesson, if there is one, might be that there is no certainty in life, only a series of ambiguous maybes.

She needs someone to walk through this mysterious place with her, to get down into the dirt, inside the twisted branches, and help her uncover life.

The truth is that Violet would not like to be any metaphor. She has only ever wanted—insisted upon—being herself.

Sitting next to Esti’s humming incubator, I kept remembering a promise I’d made to a friend in high school: if I ever had an ugly baby, I’d be the first to admit it.

She’s unsure what to do next, where the growing up and getting ready prelude to her life will lead.

I present my open palm, full of miniature marvels. I’m attempting to force him into a better mood. Trying to will him into the perfect Ken […] in the dream house of our own making.