| |
Departures are paradoxical. So often, they contain contrapuntal forces that simultaneously pull inwards and push away. John Denver pleads “Hold me like you’ll never let me go” in his iconic song, “Leaving on a Jet Plane” and we know that such an embrace is a lie. Ultimately, we must separate: departures are never half done things.
In this issue, Paula Marafino Bernett studies the martini-drunk, gem-fisted mourning that follows a death in the poem, “G is for Grief.” Andrea Scarapino observes the spinning pirouette a girl makes as she is ejected from a car crash in the poem, “Too much of anything,” and shows that love can make such a stunning nightmare of a spin exist forever. Divorce can drag like an undertow, as it does in Janis Hubschman’s story, “A Day at the Beach.” Or, leave-taking can occur regularly, as it does for writer Nate Lowe, who reflects on the work he does with his brother when their crisscrossing lives intersect for a summer in the essay, “Shed.”
There might be no worse dread than departure. Sometimes, we wake up with what we must let go; other times, we realize we are grasping something that is long gone. A melancholy theme for sure: yet, these moments of departure define what we hold dear. It’s a fitting subject for the quieting, introspective autumn season. We hope you find the work in this issue as authentic and compelling as we do.
H.K. Hummel, editor
Blood Orange Review
|
|
