Memory is a kind of fiction. It’s the story we tell ourselves, the one we decide is true because we want it to be true.

These stories are my memories of you, of us, in our 20 summers living together under the same roof. These stories are my truth.

Fact: By this point in our story, six years ago, I am raising our children and keeping the house almost entirely by myself.

Fiction: All of this is fine. We are doing fine.

Fact:  You blacked out and totaled your car one afternoon, on the way to get the kids from school. The doctors run scores of tests and can’t find an underlying cause.

Fiction: We can make it six months with one car, one driver, until you are allowed to drive again.

Fact: This is fucking impossible.

Fiction: The American dream.

We are getting close, now. A few more stories, and we’ll be here.


  1. Jennifer, I wake up looking for your next piece of heart achingly lovely writing. I have always felt this way about your blog, but this is another thing altogether. Thank you.

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  2. In this era of perfect Facebook family photos at the beach, mega mansions and expensive cars, what you are telling us takes guts. I suspect more people identify with your words than you will ever know… and wish they had the guts to say so.

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  3. This is another thing altogether. And thank you. (I always forget which is which, fiction and non-fiction. I picture the shelves in my elementary school library with the biography of Helen Keller and think, fiction? No wait, non-fiction? They’re so similar… the words… and the facts of it.)


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