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Tag Archives: Melissa Fite Johnson
Eventually, a conversation we once had— about whistling, how we both had a gift for it— rises to the surface. I try to think of our other talks, but I only see a very old woman in a blue bathing … Continue reading
After PaPa died, MaMa gave us grandchildren a recording of them at the piano, not singing, plunking out Methodist hymns. From the record’s first static-filled breath, I can picture them younger than I am now, him on the left lifting … Continue reading
With her keyboard, she found a tune so we could sing our message, as if we were a giddy couple corny from having finished the nursery instead of roommates creating a summer Sunday. We pressed record a dozen times before … Continue reading
A friend came over last month to take family pictures: my husband, me, the dog, four chickens. This photo’s just Marc and me, my favorite. I’m grinning like a kid, my head on his shoulder, my arms linking one of … Continue reading
The whole town goes when it’s a kid. I’d only known him a month. As his teacher, I was expected. The funeral home, used to Alzheimer’s patients from nursing homes, was unprepared for us. For two hours we waited in … Continue reading
Public speaking. Clowns. Absentmindedly flipping the wrong switch and slicing off my fingers in the garbage disposal, the sensation of watching bone ricochet off the mosaic backsplash before feeling a thing. Snakes. Spiders. Black goldfish, ever since the nightmare in … Continue reading