He spoke of our bodies, pressed together in the softness of the room. Of his apartment. Of our city. Of our country, extensive and great. Of the Earth and the stars. Of the sun. His words painted neighboring galaxies with their glowing plumes, their turquoise-tinted currents. Their nebulous strands.
Memoir can be such a therapeutic thing to write, and, for readers, that can be both a good and bad thing. Some stories feel too personal to have been published, too insular, but others, like this one by Erika Karnes, can open up a narrative both intimate and felt by many. Her recounting of her boyfriend's final days is beautifully written, existential, but also a quiet piece about love and moments that mean both nothing and everything. It's pretty special.
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