From The Editors

From The Editors

I have few childhood memories. At a café that separates city east from city west, a coworker tells me about a terrible haircut her aunt gave her at age seven, the bangs like frayed curtains. Walking along the beach bike path, my dad describes the pottery shop his late mother owned, how the pieces of her seem to be disappearing from the living room and our memories. I don’t mean that I am making them now. Summer was slow and my friends realized we’d all be coming back, that Los Angeles was the only place we could return and remain alive. Sepulveda was wide, the sun hung low on the bluffs, the cars were animals with fearful eyes. It had been years since I’d seen all those I loved and when I reached to touch them they were, for a second, unchanged. -CL

When I err in summer, I am not afraid. I sleep in the cradle of blue-filtered indie vampire movies, and Seattle is a gaping place. Nothing can touch me. My home is full of strangers, which I love mostly because I can arrive to Safeway in sweatpants and an ill-fitting t-shirt without fear of leaving a lasting impression. I slouch between aisles, squatting low in search of Burt’s Bees Gentle Cream Cleanser, making faces at the eggplants. In the place I will live when I grow up, I think I want invisibility. -JW

It’s the couple en route to Prospect Park holding a picnic blanket, two books, and each other. It’s the sweaty, shirtless skaters doing kickflips off the curb. Actually, it’s the men smoking and playing chess as a squirrel watches, spellbound. No, wait, it’s the mother hoisting her newborn onto the bench to listen to the jazz quartet’s sweet sounds. In fact, it’s me, wondering why I’d ever leave this place. -SS