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Tiny Love Stories: ‘My Mother Lied to a Grieving Lady’

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Tiny Love Stories: ‘My Mother Lied to a Grieving Lady’

My mother lied to a grieving lady. She baked a loaf of bread and drove straight to the mourner’s house. At the door, the widow promised to return the serving platter. Mom refused, explaining that the platter was given to her in a time of need and that she should pass it along when someone else needed it. Mom later told me there was no such benevolent tradition. Only far from home do I begin to appreciate all the white lies my mother must have told me — all the ways she made just one thing OK when my world wasn’t. — Drew Smith

Ellen and I met at a dinner party for “Lesbians Who Are Looking.” After the dinner, we talked on the phone for hours every night. I asked her a series of questions to test our compatibility. Do you like children? Dogs? Opera? Watching sports? (All things I liked.) She answered no to every question. I told her, “We have nothing in common.” She said, “So?” After 31 years together, I guess Ellen was right. — Michele Zavos

“You live here?” I asked. “Downstairs,” he replied, nervously knocking a Guinness over the balcony. The bottle shattered, but the label remained intact. Amazed, he grabbed his camera and snapped a picture. I felt like the bottle, broken from childhood sexual abuse. Over a six-year stretch, we surfed in frigid waters, hiked up Angels Landing and cruised America’s heartland on a Harley. Patiently, he helped melt the ice that encased my body. I still have the picture from our initial encounter. Some see a splintered bottle of Guinness. I see how falling in love helped me piece myself back together. — Amy Paturel

When Joey was a puppy, his crate was in the kitchen. Whenever my family told him, “Go to your house!”, he would run to it. After a year, we moved his crate into the living room. When instructed, Joey would still race to his crate — but he’d take the long way through the kitchen. I thought that was funny: After so much time, how could he not break the habit? But three years after Joey’s passing, I understand. My eyes are still drawn to the crateless corner, unable to break the habit no matter how much time has passed. — Alisha Tungare

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