What Remains True
My father and I were the same tornado, three decades apart, with alcohol tolerances that should have come with warning labels. I broke the cycle that killed him — yet blamed him for a genetic predisposition that nearly destroyed me. At 34, I tattooed forgiveness into my left bicep: “I don’t blame you.” At 45, I took a DNA test for fun, which revealed he wasn’t my biological father. I faulted him for something he didn’t give me. Fourteen years and a reluctant new family later, neither the ink nor the love for the father who raised me have faded. — Alison Sinclair
A Slob and a Snob?
We matched on OKCupid and scheduled a date for after her return from a trip. But our text chemistry was so intoxicating that we decided to meet in Central Park and eat tapas before she departed. It was terrible. She thought I was a slob. I thought she was a snob. She joked with our waiter about how poorly it was going. Duty bound, I walked her three blocks home. I was a hard no. Yet, between 72nd and 75th Streets, something clicked. We agreed to have that official first date after all. Eleven years later, we’re still on it. — James Jackson
Locked for Half a Century
For a half-century, my trumpet mostly remained in its case, through marriage, motherhood, divorce. Helping my granddaughter practice piano, I eyed my old instrument, wondering, “What if?” I clicked the lock, placed the horn to my lips. The only horn-playing girl in a sea of boys, I had once regarded the trumpet as my identity. I managed a fuzzy note, then two. But its smooth weight in my hands was instantly familiar, and I knew why I’d never sold or given it away. That silver horn held the girl in me who had been certain that my music mattered. — Ruth Bonapace
A New View of My Old Home
I spent my years in Nashville mostly alone, counting down the days until college. Then I left for Los Angeles. Now I’m back for the summer, driving my little sister, Vivienne, and her friends from volleyball practice to movies with boys whose hands they won’t hold. Gossip fills the back seat — sweet chatter I never had while living here. One of Vivienne’s friends, an only child, tells her she’s lucky to have a sister. I don’t say anything. I’m not driving through my Nashville anymore. I am driving through hers. It’s the only version of this city I’ve ever loved. — Sophie Landry
