GOING INTO THE BANKS
Kim King

Going into the memory bank of my childhood is like going into a deep, dark attic. Every memory from age three is displayed on a shelf near the front, but memories from ages four to eighteen are packaged in a box and pushed way in the back of a dusty corner where no one can find them. They are not in the attic because they’re old. I don’t discriminate against age; there is wisdom, knowledge, and strength in getting old. No, they’re there because I don’t want them in the foyer.

Sometimes I’ll pick up a flashlight and a pair of scissors and begin to scavenge. One day I waded through a carton marked CRAZY YEARS OF MY MARRIAGES. The s is there
because it’s important. “Once burned, twice learned,” I always say. That’s why I pushed it aside and foraged through THE BIRTH OF MY CHILDREN, THE YEARS I TRAVELED, MY YEARS IN COLLEGE, THE YEARS I WROTE RELIGIOUSLY, and THE YEARS I JUST STOOD STILL. Hidden behind those I found what I was looking for: FONDEST CHILDHOOD MEMORY.

The box wasn’t tattered, torn, or ragged. In fact, it looked new like the others, only lighter. Given the yards and yards of duct tape I’d wrapped around it, I knew it wasn’t the same
as the other boxes. I took a breath, slid the scissors beneath the seam, and cut the tape. I rummaged through packing peanuts, flinging them all over the floor, but found nothing.

The definition of fond is “cherished with great affection.” But I found no affection in there, in any box. I slit open each one and searched them thoroughly; they were all missing
affection. I dropped the scissors and, like a spider, backed into the wall. I hugged my knees to my chest and in the silent, dusty darkness of the room, tucked my face in my thighs and cried.

A TURNING POINT (an excerpt)
Sylvia Taylor

Since my metamorphosis from
believing in punishment to believing
in rehabilitation, I know that the
emphasis needs to be placed on
accountability. It makes no sense to
me that a thief is not made to replace
what he or she stole, or that someone
who commits assault or murder is not
made to face his or her victims or the
victims’ families. Jails must also be
accountable: I don’t understand how
an illiterate inmate can leave jail still
not knowing how to read. The justice
system must be accountable, too: how
can the chief executives of a corporation—
like a gas-gouging company
that knowingly pollutes the earth or
poisons the waters—not be seriously
and severely charged? Accountability
should be a measure for all who
threaten our lives!

SWEET SUMMERS (an excerpt)
Marian I. Jones

Grandpa’s garden
fresh green beans and ripe tomatoes
potatoes, peas, and carrots
corn and cherry trees

Spring planting
summer growing
harvest in the fall

Strong-shouldered
coastal seaside Carolinian
embraced New Jersey’s mountain soil
raised gardens, Dad, and us

Grandma’s kitchen
taste of dough and then sweet rolls
fragrant fruit from their trees
bubbled beneath golden crusts
sweet apples, cherries, and peaches

Grace and thanks at the dining table
for all God’s earth provided
bountiful gardens genuflected