Nonfiction | March 01, 1994
This essay is not currently available online.
Almost twenty years ago on an early spring day in Missouri, I was outside with the children, wrestling Jack into his infant carrier in the front seat of the car while Stephen waited to climb into the back.
If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.
Want to read more?Subscribe Today
SEE THE ISSUE
Editors' Prize Winner
Jun 02 2021
Opera House By Robert Stothart Everything seemed married to everything else. —Gustave Baumann, printmaker, Santa Fe Overture A mere 7,918 miles in diameter, Earth, our home together, travels a minuscule
Jun 02 2021
The Valley of Boys
The Valley of Boys Sage Marshall Boys, boys, a valley of boys. We lived in a small town. The snow rose in silent blankets outside the classroom window. It came
Mar 02 2021
A Series of Tubes
Although widely ridiculed for the statement, the late Alaska Senator Ted Stevens was right when he said, “The Internet is a series of tubes.” He was just off by a