DIANE MEHTA
There were nightmares after which I flew into her bed and sometimes she let me stay there. But because these times were rare, I took what my mother offered in lieu of affection: a critical eye. Without an opinion and a critical eye, she taught me, you were nothing.

Curated by SARAH WHELAN
Already done reading our latest Issue? Prolong the fun with these weekend reading recommendations from a few of our Issue 18 contributors: Anna Badkhen, Bernard Ferguson, Geoff Martin, and Jessamyn Hope.

SUSAN R. TROCCOLO
On that bright morning in November—the first day I saw her—Anna Lea Lelli wore the outfit that distinguished her on the streets of Rome: a long cape and beret. The beret emphasized her craggy jaw and prominent Roman nose.

LYNN PANE
He had thought it was aging. He made the doctor’s appointment. It was the weakness in his hands, the way his pen slipped while trying to fill out a form—he watched these occurrences in the slow motion of panic, but it was the unstoppable laughter that frightened him, it made it hard to breathe.

GEOFF MARTIN
I think of him now the way I saw him last: my grandfather, seated on the edge of his hospital bed with the pale shanks of his legs angled to bare feet on rubber floor… Despite the catheter tube and the IV drip at his side, he wasn’t taking this one lying down… his eyes sparkled with unspent energy.

SUSAN TACENT
Maria Terrone’s grandparents were among the estimated nine million people who emigrated from Italy between 1881 and 1927. While her parents were born in the United States, her connection to Italy is deep, informing her identity and experiences as much as being a lifelong New Yorker has.

ANTONIO ROMANI
I pressed my bike’s pedal, and immediately focused on navigating safely through the motorized fleet. In my new city, bicycles are merely tolerated, like dual citizens by the U.S. government. Drivers often don’t “see” them, and when they do, they mistrust them.

MOJGAN GHAZIRAD
As we entered the city, the scorching sun crested the eastern horizon. The aroma of rosewater wafted around us in the quiet early morning streets. Niasar is famous for its rose gardens, and the best rosewater distillates are produced in this patch of land in Iran. The entrance to the cave was in a rose garden up in the hills that cradle the city.

Curated by: SARAH WHELAN Thank you to everyone who bought Issue 16, subscribed to receive a copy, or attended a launch event! To celebrate, this month we have three more contributors are here to give us peak at their bookshelves. Whether you’re in the mood for a classic novel, a contemporary essay collection, or an

ADRIANNE KALFOPOULOU
I am on the island of Patmos for Easter. Though I haven’t come for the holiday specifically. It so happens I’m off from work because it’s Easter, arguably the most important event in the Greek holiday calendar; Christ’s birth the less celebrated event as compared to his death…