Lacey Hoffman

“Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the Husbands. ​— ​Abigail Adams to John Adams”
― Libby McNamee, Susanna's Midnight Ride: The Girl Who Won the Revolutionary War

“Our plane lands ahead of schedule, but it’s still late at night when we finally pull up to our house. The stars and the crickets are all out and calling us home. Our curtains are drawn, but a soft glow pours around the edges. A familiar pang hits me. This is how the house used to look when I came home after dark and Mom was in the living room, trilling away at the piano. If I don’t walk inside, maybe I can just stand out here with my suitcase and feel like she’s still there, waiting for me to go in so she can shout a greeting over the music without stopping her fingers. I can pretend that when she finishes the Rachmaninoff, she’ll swing her legs around the piano bench and leap up to give me a hug. And in a few days, when it’s Sunday, I’ll roll out of bed and find her in the kitchen making waffles with berries and whipped cream. I’ll hear that sunny voice chirp “Good morning!” to me while I’m still shaking off the fog of sleep, and I’ll grunt back in response, remember to smile at her, offer to help mix the batter. I’ll do all the things I constantly forgot to, all the things I wish I could go back and add in like another layer on a watercolor painting. “You coming, Leigh?” says Dad. Our driver pulls away from the house, and then there’s just me standing in the driveway with my suitcase, staring as Dad fiddles with his keys on the front porch. I let loose a long, slow exhale. “Guess we forgot to turn off the lights, huh?” “We didn’t,” he says, and the two simple words send my heart racing. Because what could that mean, except that Mom is actually alive and home and waiting for us right inside? My heart speeds as I drag my suitcase up to the porch and haul it in, trailing after Dad through the soft yellow light and into our house. “You’re home! Welcome back!” Arms wrap around me, and it takes a moment too long for me to process the shoulder pressing into my cheek, the soft shirt against my skin, the smell of deodorant and shampoo all wrong.”
― Emily X.R. Pan, The Astonishing Color of After

“People start to forget about you after you die and they can’t see you all the time anymore. It was already happening with Andy. I started to notice that at his funeral that was on the day after the wake. Everyone was talking about Andy, but they talked about him like they only remembered some parts of him, not all the parts. “Oh, Andy was just such a darling, such a pleasure to have in class.” “He was hilarious, wasn’t he? What a character!” “He was so bright, incredibly smart.” It was like they weren’t really talking about Andy or they were starting to forget about what he was like.”
― Rhiannon Navin, Only Child

“Hey, Simon,” says Agate. “So, you are having a panic attack.” The siren is incredibly loud. It’s so loud that it could drown me. I can’t breathe and the air feels green and weird. “You are having a panic attack but also there is an actual tornado,” says Agate. “Can you breathe? Keep breathing. I asked my sensory processing specialist to tell me about panic attacks so I could help you and I learned that telling you to breathe is the best thing. Please keep breathing. I would like that very much.”
― Erin Bow, Simon Sort of Says: