by Lindsay Nielsen

Were you dying as I passed the Lake Harriet bench where we always met? As I breathed in the morning air colored by the sunrise, were you exhaling your last? Were you already gone when I woke during the night realizing I needed to drop a note off at your house? Because even though you weren’t feeling well enough to talk, I wanted to let you know one more time how much I admired you, how permanently your quiet presence had become part of my heart. Maybe you’ve gone to a place where you still have some form of consciousness, some kind of ability to watch your children grow and have children of their own. I hope by the end you came to understand how much you affected the world by your very being.

By Ellen Baker

Three years ago, I listened in shock to my new agent telling me that Random House had not only just bought my first novel, Keeping the House, they’d also bought my second novel. I was thrilled. I was confused. But I’ve only written the one. They do that? “It can be about whatever you want it to be,” my agent told me. “They just really love your writing.”