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Tag Archives: Victoria Melekian
Zebra G nibs, oblique pen holders, Moon Palace ink—a list of yummy supplies. I’m tempted to run off Saturday mornings and learn calligraphy. English Round Hand, the catalogue says. Just leave the laundry and dishes, ignore Carol starting chemo, Pat … Continue reading
I’m not one to go visiting grave sites— just as well, since Mom and Grandma and Grandpa opted for cremated remains in niches way up high near the bug zapper, and poor Dad was scattered in the desert, which is … Continue reading
Turning the corner, I see a kid. He’s maybe seventeen, nineteen walking down the sidewalk carrying a bouquet. They could be for anyone, those flowers, but I want them to be for his mother. I want them waiting in a … Continue reading
One night, my husband’s sitting on the edge of the bed, sobbing into his hands. Says he found Jesus. He’s going to be saved. A week later—he’s packed up and left. Goes to Wednesday night prayer meetings. Rest of his … Continue reading
We knew it could happen—there was no way that messy house of twigs was safe up there in our eaves. The nest blew down, and the doves rebuilt using the sprigs and fluff now on the ground. Restored, they took … Continue reading
I. Pink blossoms in a terra cotta pot, a real pot, red clay, with cracks and sweet crumbles, lovely imperfections holding these beauties. I don’t remember planting them. II. There she was: bright yellow bird, deep black wings sitting in … Continue reading
She’s been saving morphine. “Euthanize,” she says, and stares till I nod yes. She is losing words like blanket and zipper and doesn’t always make sense, but when she calls to ask if I’m coming soon, I know what she … Continue reading
Three days past Christmas, the hospital walls are still decorated with holiday cheer—snowflakes, reindeer, a wreath with a crumpled candy bar wrapper stuffed into the artificial evergreen. Torn magazines, empty cups, and old newspapers litter the tables. The TV is … Continue reading