Jacintho

It’s fitting that the sky grew dark and furious on the day my mother’s ashes arrived. The torrential downpour flooded the backroads… Some...

My mother loved everything that glittered. She was green. Single-minded. Pushing through the dark. ​ Today I repotted her plants, trying...

Eight years ago, my mother’s accident brought about a change that could not be undone, and all normalcy of living ceased. Tucked into a...

My mother didn’t read, but I always worried she'd find and dislike something I wrote. Especially, if it was published. I have only...

My most comforting memories of my mother are those memories of her when she sang sitting at the table leaning into the radio. She leaned...

When I left home and began my education at Maryland Institute College of Art, I didn’t tell anyone where I came from. I winced each and...

My mother was slim, but a short drink of water, with breasts like sun-speckled eggs. Her halter-top and hot-pants were jumping colors and...

Body Simone de Beauvoir had a rather long forehead and Sartre had a rather haunting glare. Sometimes the two would not let me speak for...

-- Despite the buzz of my phone's constant emergency alerts of flash-flood warnings, I made an attempt. I sat down to write. The trees...

I grew up in a predominately Portuguese neighborhood in Fall River, Massachusetts. Each year, I attended the Holy Ghost Feast and walked...