like [my] mother, like me
If the bath is a womb, the shower is a river, a rain. Distance between droplets makes a better clean, not deep, but a clearing.
-
Read -
ReadOld Friends Let Things Go
In December, Karen and her family left the murky skies of Philadelphia behind and touched down at LAX on a breathtakingly warm and sunny day. -
ReadA Legacy of Stuff
There’s a legacy of stuff passed through my family, especially on my father’s side. -
ReadMoses’ Ear
I had thought I was alone. A familiar scent of bleach and black coffee hung suspended in the warm air of my childhood kitchen. -
ReadDispatches from the Richmond Uprising
Before we leave Virginia, the doctor calls us from his home. -
ReadConfessions to My Ancestors
Confession: I don’t know my ancestors’ names. Also: my Mandarin is lousy. I have never been to our ancestral village. -
ReadTomorrow Will be Even Brighter
The first thing you need to know about Hot Spring Leisure City is that there are no hot springs. -
ReadCadet College, Kohat
Humza went to school with me in Kohat. We were always competing with each other for the first position in class. -
ReadHow to Deprogram a Parent in 7 Easy Steps
Do you have an elderly parent who has fallen victim to internet conspiracy theories? -
ReadI wanted to wash my face and my feet. I wanted to be invited somewhere.
I was being led by something. So tender and raw inside of my body that I can’t point to a specific place — there was me before I had ever seen a dam. -
ReadSmoke Screens
The week the pandemic hits, I break my lease in Little Haiti and drive fifteen hours up the I-95 to be with my parents. -
ReadThose People
In 1996, the year my mother died of a heroin overdose, Purdue Pharma started to sell OxyContin in the United States. -
ReadAn Essay on Processing
TSW Art Director, Meg Sykes, on creating the featured image for Issue 13: Rebellious Joy -
ReadRest Begets Rest: An Essay
TSW Artist in Residence, Bianca Ng, writes a meditative inquiry into rest
