KOYAANISQATSI BY ANAMYN TUROWSKI 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 66 READ NOW
I woke calling out for mommy. Not Mom, of course, but a mother who seemed so real, so tender, with her arms spread wide, inviting me to her. I rolled onto my side and hugged myself in hard, and remembered back to the day in Malibu. I swam out beyond the breakers and let the ocean hold me. I floated. Maybe I’d be okay.
THE INJURY BY SUNSHINE BARBITO 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 66
My dad was a famous rock star. People literally clawed at one another to get to him, he signed guitars and posters and still loved Mom and only her until the accident, the injury. And now this is his life. Married to some kid who can’t do anything right.
PASSPORT PHOTO BY ROY BENTLEY 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 66
That was the summer I learned what loss is—
a father coming into the kitchen and squatting
to explain to a nine-year-old son he needs to leave.
And saying he has to hurry to catch a plane.
I reconstruct now the keepsake photograph:
black and white, signed. His passport photo.
A square of flat-top haircut and man-face,
which he handed off into my small palm.
I didn’t know the nature of happiness
is such you grab it and hold on. Through
this life and the next since light as passport
moment is always being placed in our hands.
I learned it with his leaving or maybe it came
later when I looked and saw what he’d left me.