Previously by Rachel Brownson: Sunday at the Children's Hospital. My grandparents’ living room was almost too warm after the cutting December wind outside, and the Christmas tree blinked pink and gold, ringed with piles of boxes. My cousins and their parents could be heard laughing and bickering in the den downstairs, and as we shed our chilly coats and exchanged the usual hugs, I looked around for my uncle Dave, wondering which version of…

It is early Sunday morning and my cat has just pounced on my quilt-covered ankles to inform me her dish is empty: our weekly waking ritual on my faith’s holy day. If I don’t oblige right away she will start in on her most mournful arias, so I stumble through the dark of my basement apartment, scoop some kibble into her dish, and stare into the bathroom mirror at my badly lit face

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