Not-So-Secret Ingredient
I eat an egg, over-easy, every morning. In the summer, I make the egg myself. As a teacher, my mornings are slower during those months. It tastes fine. But during the school year, my husband makes the egg every morning. Same stove. Same pan. Same ingredients. Yet his egg is unbelievably delicious. Is it cliché to say the secret ingredient is love? Is it my love for him that makes the egg so good, or his love for me? Probably both. I think he uses more butter, too. — Jackie Hostetler
New Dog, Old Grief
In grief therapy, they said it was common to feel a fresh wave of loss over a deceased parent when having children yourself. I don’t have children, but I recently adopted a grouchy little dog. I keep thinking of my father, David, who passed suddenly five years ago. His face, so often closed off and shadowed, opened up into a grin around animals. He would’ve told me that my short pup looked like a normal dog chopped off at the knees. He would’ve grabbed my dog’s face and made him growl. He would’ve, he would’ve, he would’ve. — Angeline Jacques
Savoring the Sight
Winter lights glimmered along 24th Street in San Francisco. The night was cold as I gazed at a Tibetan store’s window display of charms and talismans. In the glass, I saw a reflection of David standing across the street behind me. His smile widened, goofy with pleasure. I didn’t turn around; I wanted to savor the sight of my new love watching me. He yelled, “Suzette!” and ran to me, lighting up the street. A month later, when my friend Vivian met David, she said, “I can almost see sparkles between you two.” Thirty years later, we still shimmer. — Suzette Standring
The Voice Within Me
Our relationship was nearly perfect: I’d never loved someone so much, or been so loved in return. I think now of the warm touch of his arm against mine, the safety I felt when he held me as we stared at the moon. But I’d long wondered if I was gay, and even in a relationship built on real intimacy, something was missing. From deep within me, a voice whispered: “You are meant to be with a woman.” “Simmer down!” I tried yelling at it. But the voice came back stronger each time, until eventually, I had to listen. — Betsy Waisel
