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The Trump in Me

A few nights ago, my husband and I had a reservation for 8:30 p.m. at a new restaurant in town. When we arrived, the young manager told us they didn’t have a table yet and asked us to wait at the bar. There wasn’t an especially comfortable spot to park ourselves, we were both famished, but we complied. At 9:00 p.m. eyes cast downward, the manager approached and told us that none of the tables were clearing and the kitchen would be closing soon.

April 27, 2019

By Sarita Sidhu

When I was much younger I used to call older women Auntiji out of respect―in my Punjabi Sikh culture we are taught to address all significantly older females and males as Auntiji and Uncleji respectively, whether they are related to us or not. I recall them voicing incredulous anger when someone close to their age called them Auntiji: “Did you hear that? She’s virtually my senior and she’s calling me Auntiji! The cheek of it.”

My Mother Wanders

My mother wanders through the creaky old house, not on cat feet like her favorite poem but on the squeaky wavering wheels of an elderly person’s ubiquitous symbol of limited mobility – the walker. Querulously negotiating turns that were not even noticed five or ten years ago, taking ten minutes to launch from sitting to standing, and back down again, from fragile weight on the walker to the comfy position in the one wonderful old big chair.