How Watching 'Supermarket Sweep' Gives Me Hope After Loss
Supermarket Sweep is what gets me the closest, catapulting me back to a time when we were alive, together.
Supermarket Sweep is what gets me the closest, catapulting me back to a time when we were alive, together.
I got a D in math and my sister got cancer. These aren’t causalities, only things that happened one right after the other.
Will it challenge how they feel about the kingdom? The nationalistic pride of what it means to be Thai?
I find joy in being let into the idiosyncrasies of someone’s taste.
My father has been gone for so long now. There’s nothing for me to escape anymore. I read his book to try to believe him again.
Who will remember a girl’s pain when the evidence disappears?
As of January 2021, only six of the first twenty-one sweepstakes winners were able to live in their Dream Home for longer than a year.
The wall that divided us in those early weeks of my first child’s infancy became a continued separation.
My daughter understands object permanence—the idea that what vanishes continues to exist. As the planet warms, I worry I may have oversold the concept.
What else did I lose to assimilate?
In the emergency room waiting for a potential diagnosis, I soothe myself with loops of pudgy toddlers tripping into the antics of babyhood over and over again.
What might have happened if we had stayed?
Yes, this system is imperfect. It took years—and the privilege of professional help—before I’d learn to articulate my grief in words.
Comforting each other is more natural when we’re physically present, which is what the pandemic made it impossible for my not-husband to be.
The invisible fence that divides highbrow and lowbrow is largely imposed by money, those we admire, and our own social conditioning.
If you’re looking at something, you don’t know where it’s going; if you know where it’s going, you don’t know where it is.
The grief of the pandemic era is ongoing. What happens if everyone is sitting shiva at once?
My parents were old. It was time to take seriously the last years we had left. That is not, of course, how they saw things.
After her arrest, I started to understand. All the racist slights and foolish men my mother had endured. More reasons to be angry than I could count.
Twenty years after the not-cancer, my mother died of cancer. Maybe that’s why when they tell me it’s a fibroid I’m so afraid.