She still has that dark line running up the back of each bare leg. Women did that during the Depression and World War II: drew lines up their legs to simulate the seams of the stockings they coul...
My mother’s pasta sauce always tasted just right to me, even though she often didn’t remember my favorite foods while I was growing up. She didn’t remember that I hated ham, that I wouldn�...
I say, “He was nice,” and watch the fair-skinned, jolly man slip into his car and drive away. From the kitchen, Mom says, “That was your dad.” The post A Father first appeared on Hippoca...
I lift my bare foot from the boot, its fur lining like spent cat tails, and lower it into the snow bank, so my toes are buried. The burn of ice, prickly and electric, the shock I’ve gotten when...
I tried pills first, and when I woke up the next morning, I decided to jump off a bridge. The bridge swayed under my feet that night as I stood beside my car, hazard lights still on. I walked a f...
We sit on the worn couch, as we do every visit. Once pale gold velvet, now smoke-stained and yellowed. We rub the dingy fabric one direction, smooth. The other direction, prickly against our fing...
My challenge is—and always has been—that I’m not particularly good at any one thing. I’m not much of an athlete (OK. I have zero hand-to-eye coordination; it’s a good day if I get the p...
I was nervous when I first picked up Bobblehead Dad, Jim Higley's new memoir about his battle with cancer. Ever since I became a mother, four years ago, my emotional quota has essentially been dr...
https://hippocampusmagazine.com/2011/06/memoir-review-bobblehead-dad/