Elizabeth Gargano: Why We Should Try Talking to the Dead
After my father’s death, my mother kept talking to him.
Elizabeth Gargano: Why I Chose to Be My Mother’s Caretaker
Living on Human Time When I tell friends and acquaintances that my eighty-nine-year-old mother will be moving in with my husband and me, I get two kinds of stares. One … Continue reading
Elizabeth Gargano: Villanelle — Song of the MRI
Into the white tube, the silver coffin I shoot. The machine rumbles and creaks and in the floating distance, cathedral bells clang in a city of towers where rain falls … Continue reading
Elizabeth Gargano: Soup
That fall the hunger came upon her, fierce and angry, a hunger for apples bubbling in a cast-iron pan, tart, grainy with cinnamon, for yams bursting out of their burnt … Continue reading
Elizabeth Gargano: Harvest
One morning the crows settle on the corn in our garden, dark flames on the candled stalks. . I plant a broom in the earth, straw end up, wrap it … Continue reading
Elizabeth Gargano: The Dream Visit
. When I walk into the living room, my mother’s fake oriental rug gleams like spilled wine, its long-necked birds and spiky flowers following their untraceable paths. . My dead … Continue reading
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