Essay by Laura Sergeant
The virus demands a deep imagining of death.
The virus demands a deep imagining of death.
I remember wanting to surf and ski from the minute I became cognizant these activities existed.
We, as humans, need to be around others who have felt what we’re feeling.
Perhaps the fact of her mother’s death was real to her, as real as it could get, whether or not she ever saw the body.
My rights are less pertinent these days, and I’m learning restraint too late.
My own porch looked unlived-in, a stage for a performance that had yet to happen.
Are you, like, actually a boy?
I wanted to pretend I was okay, that it was a happy day and I was there for a better reason.
It’s not the spasms or pain I remember, only the damp, hot, itchy, smelly strips of wool.
My aunt’s attitudes reminded me of the cultural practice of senicide, abandoning the aging to die.