A love triangle, fertility treatments, and deafness
Welcome back to Memoir Monday—a weekly newsletter and quarterly reading series, brought to you by Narratively, The Rumpus, Catapult, Granta, Guernica, and Literary Hub. Each essay in this newsletter has been selected by the editors at the above publications as the best of the week, delivered to you all in one place.
I Professed My Love at Mile 15...But Not to My Husband
by Christine Ochs-Naderer (art by Julia Vohl)
An hour and a half after that mid-marathon profession of love, we crossed the finish line. In the haze of Gatorade cups and bananas, Casey and I shared a hug that might have been awkward if I weren’t so exhausted. I fought back tears. We parted ways as I scanned the crowd for my husband, waiting with a blanket and a smile.
There’s no good way to say it: I was married. And not to Casey.
Roses
by Legacy Russell
Here are the rules. Accept no gifts, we are not a charity. Remember that junk food is part of our Black genocide; do not eat what they eat if you can avoid it. When you are asked about your family, do not speak ill about your Black family to these rich white families. When they ask about your family, tell them your mother has a PhD. Here are the rules. Do not have dirt under your fingernails. Do not have tears in your jeans. Make sure your face is clean. Do not forget what a beautiful Black child you are, even inside of the houses of these rich white parents whose votes and tax brackets and investment portfolios profit from our death and guarantee we die early.
Queen of That Universe
by Jillayna Adamson
The calmness of the café is undoubtedly my own. I know there must exist the etching squeals of the espresso machine, over and over. The rumbling crescendo of fizzle as it pushes out its final drops. The deep barreling of grinding beans, the scent of hazelnut I notice in wafts. Nearly every table is taken, people jabbering away in huddles of two and three. Their lips and eyebrows eager, their hands flying. Bulky mugs rimmed with froth clinking on the tables again and again. I’m sure the sounds are there, though I don’t hear them. My hearing aids are off.
Trying to Conceive Feels a Little Bit Less Awful Than Not Trying
by Mandy Len Catron
Eventually a nurse directs me through the maze-like space of the clinic to a small changing room that faces a desk and some cubicles. Instead of a door, there’s a thin curtain between me and the hallway. “Take off everything from the waist down and put on this skirt,” she says, gesturing to a bundle of teal fabric lying on the chair. The curtain doesn’t close completely. As I pull off my jeans and then my underwear, I hear the nurses in the cubicles chatting about their weekend plans.
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