Hold On by Toni Martin
I should have noticed when my wedding ring fell out of my pocket. I should have heard it strike and plink on the concrete floor in Big Willie’s dressing room behind the bar when I slung my jacket over…
I should have noticed when my wedding ring fell out of my pocket. I should have heard it strike and plink on the concrete floor in Big Willie’s dressing room behind the bar when I slung my jacket over…
The Marine said his name was Dusty. She said hers was Laila, which was the name on the fake ID Kareena presented to the bouncer at the Wave Waikiki. If Crystal hadn’t led the way in a tube top…
Penny Guisinger and I met when we each served on the board of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance in the early 2010s, and I became a fan of her nonfiction soon after. Her work captured complex realities of…
Grace Loh Prasad is a literary sister of mine in many ways. She is a good friend, fellow memoirist, and neighbor. We are both members of The Writers Grotto and The Ruby communities in San Francisco, and alumnae of…
I told you it wouldn’t take long to get to the river. No, I don’t come here alone at night. Yes, I do come here when night is impatiently waiting to arrive, streaking the sky with pink and cobalt…
Prologue I must begin by telling you that I am Black. This is a very strange thing to have to say out loud. It is usually something self-evident that goes without saying. But my light skin and blur of…
By Ann Guy • Wading through a sea of blond hair and blue eyes every day felt normal in the tiny, rural Western Michigan town where I grew up. So did biking to the public library and loading up…
It’s an ugly thing to follow a woman along the street but this is what I did. She was a copy of Patti Smith during the early Mapplethorpe years, before Horses and Mineshaft and all the BDSM, when they…
Is your mom a mail-order bride? I was once asked by a classmate in fourth grade while we sat at our desks making fake nails out of Elmer’s glue squeezed into the hollow of our plastic rulers. No, of…
I hold the things I need in my arms. Since the pandemic, I don’t use a basket. Today, I’m cradling a bottle of Advil gel caps, blue mascara, and a ginger lemon kombucha. Customer service associate needed in the…
In August of 2023, my oldest daughter left for college and immediately I received many forlorn looks with the same question from intelligent people: “What are you going to do when you’re an empty nester?” Huh? I wanted to say, That term is as outdated as spinster. Why do we still use it? Doesn’t it perpetuate stereotypes that family status defines a woman’s worth or happiness? Empty nester implies loss, suggesting that life diminishes after kids leave. My single or childless friends don’t have a counterpart to this phrase. Their lives keep thriving! Meanwhile, empty nester promotes this idea of a mother’s life being centered around sacrifice, and then there is a void. I didn’t want either of those statements to be true.
Maintaining my individuality has been a conscious choice. I love my children as much as any mom, and I’ve also retained the multifaceted identities I’ve had since before motherhood. Most of my friends don’t have children and my relationships revolve around creative projects. Because I attempted to compartmentalize motherhood, I thought my creative life would shield me from the grief of my children leaving. It didn’t.
When my daughter left for school, I recognized the paradox, and I tried, through this story, to subvert the narrative. I disliked the social stigma or pity associated with the term empty nester, yet I walked around the neighborhood carrying inconsolable sadness. This story helped me express the transitional time when an extra chair at dinner, a clean bedroom, or that first glimpse of an empty laundry basket can make you cry.
Before this story got accepted to CRAFT, I received a rejection letter from an unnamed editor that read, “The theme of loss is introduced right from the outset. However, when delving deeper into the narrative, it becomes clear that death is not the reason for the narrator losing her daughter—she has simply grown up.” I wanted to respond to this editor, Yes! That’s exactly it.
JENNIFER LEWIS is a writer, editor, and publisher of Red Light Lit. Her debut short story collection, The New Low, was published by Black Lawrence Press. Her stories have won the Nomadic Press Bindle Award and The Los Angeles Review Flash Fiction Award. Her fiction has been published in Cosmonauts Avenue, The Los Angeles Press, and Midnight Breakfast. Her nonfiction has been published in Alta Journal, Joshua Tree Voice, and The Rumpus. She received her MFA in creative writing from San Francisco State University. Jennifer teaches at The Writing Salon in San Francisco. Find her on Instagram @jenniferlewiswrites.