After Albertinelli’s Visitation, in the Uffizi

By Elizabeth Cranford Garcia

–for my sister The orange flickers first, the gleaming cloth across the room, that pulls you close to sense their breathing: face to face, two women, both diagonal, but one in deference, in blue. The elder reaches out to soothe her fear with leaning empathy, to glimpse the lowered eyes–and knowledge licks her womb. Their …

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Coming to the Table, Not Alone

By Jerie Sandholtz Jacobs

Sunday morning, Visiting the First Presbyterian Church of New Orleans Peace be with you she whispers eyes averted reaching for my hand And with you also the automatic words fall lightly from my lips Until I sit and the weight of uttered hope settles on my chest with a wistful sense that her fleur-de-lys tattoo …

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Twilight Zone Episode 2a, 1985

By Dayna Patterson

My girl says I look daily as I lean over the stove to heat up a pot of black beans. I don’t have to ask. She told me yesterday daily means pretty. The lay of the language shifts beneath our tongues. Words and meaning inch apart by syllables. On my way to work, the neighbor may mention his encyclopedia …

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My sisters

By Dalene Rowley

Arriving at the temple a few minutes early, I hastily accepted the welcome I received at the recommend desk, but also wanted to linger in the cool breeze next to the doors. I made my way into the foyer and then I saw them.

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A Few Of My Favorite Things. Or Not.

By Brooke Benton

Recently our Relief Society had a meeting that highlighted people’s “favorites.” I didn’t go because my favorite right now is getting my kids to bed and then going to bed myself to enjoy uninterrupted quiet and a spot of solitude before drifting away to blissful dreams of tropical shorelines and tan limbs. (Or something like that.)

But I contemplated going (which is almost as good as going) (SAYS ME) and because I did, I started to try and think what I would bring that was my favorite. Sadly, this task took a surprising amount of dedicated brainpower, and as I scoured the far recesses of wherever the want and comfort center resides in this ol’ body of mine, I couldn’t immediately cull up anything that I loved enough to set upon a table and make declarations of love for.

Except for my six-year-old.



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Sisterly Love

By Melissa McQuarrie

When I was a little girl I thought one of the happiest sounds I’d ever heard was my mother laughing with her six sisters. They’d stand around my grandmother’s kitchen, washing the dishes and putting away the Christmas dinner leftovers, laughing so loudly they sounded like the kookaburras that cackled outside my window every morning. My mother’s sister Rosalie—we called her Ro—lived just a couple of miles from us, and she and my mother got together several times a week while my cousins and I played. They colored each other’s hair, shared recipes and gossip, reminisced about their childhoods, and cried together when Ro had her miscarriages. But mostly I remember their laughter and the way my mother’s eyes brightened when she was around Ro and her other sisters. My mother knew a secret then that I’ve only come to appreciate now that I’m a grown woman and a mother myself: having sisters is pretty much the best thing that can happen to a girl.

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I Look Like My Sister

By Lisa Rumsey Harris

I LOOK LIKE MY SISTER. We’re not identical, mind you; if we stand side by side, you’ll be able to tell us apart. Elaine is two inches taller, for one thing. My hair is more blonde and less thick. She is far less freckled, and my skin is paler. She has the nose I wish I …

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