Published: May 2025, Moria Literary Magazine

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"The kids thought I needed closure, and the doctors told them I had hours to get it. Grant said I’d regret not seeing you one more time, but I see you enough, that goddamn carousel of flashbacks and night sweats I can’t get off."

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The person Leslie hates the most is about to die, and she must recon with the life they shared before it’s too late.

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Spoiler! 

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One of my shortest pieces, Remember Yosemite is the culmination of about ten other drafts, each following different people in this family. Each kid has a story, and Leslie, the narrator in this story, has other pieces as well. She’s an Olive Kitteridge type from her kids’ points of view, not especially likable. She doesn’t seem to live life in the moment, always dwelling on the past and picking at bones, even to the detriment of her grown kids, who have all distanced themselves from her.

 

Most of us probably know someone like that. In this story, she reflects on the different versions of herself she’s been – sort of combining all my drafts, all the stages of her life, into an address to her ex-husband, the kind of inventory that usually only happens during or after a traumatic event. I wanted to show how she got here, slowly over time, from fearless newlywed to mother of three, to divorcee and empty nester. Each change forced her to shed her skin, become someone else.

 

It's rare for me to attempt a second-person story, let alone complete one. But I was stuck on this line: “Remember Yosemite? That half-tent, half-cabin thing, the shitty mattress we flattened into a pancake.” I liked the idea of calling back to a shared memory with just a few words. If this address was in person, Leslie could’ve probably just said “Remember Yosemite?” and her ex would know the exact story she was going to tell.

 

Thanks to Moria Literary Magazine for picking up this lil ditty!