washington-post-logo.jpg
My fantasy of giving birth to a mini-me — equipped with my ski slope nose and penchant for frosting over cake and sports over stilettos — died in a sterile doctor’s office. He talked about premature ovarian failure and finished with our sole option for being pregnant and giving birth to a child: egg donation. Read full essay
weekly calistogan.jfif

I don’t just remember that tragic day on Sept. 11 when trite references to the horror blip by on the news. I remember it every single day of my life, as do countless others — those of us who were in New York, people all over our world. We saw, we experienced, we lived though something unimaginable, something that couldn’t have possibly happened in our lifetime, yet it did.  The smell of its aftermath still lingers large in my memories, as does everything about that day: the view of the tip of Manhattan on fire as my brother and I hauled over the Queensboro Bridge to escape. Images of missing persons wallpapered our city. Fliers tacked on subways, walls of restaurants, lamp posts and churches. Fliers of the hundreds and thousands of people who went missing. People who would never find their way home, people who were lost forever... Read the full essay here.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
goodreads.png