Margaret's Essays

Years ago, in my heady youth, I reconnected with a guy I’d worked with on the student newspaper. We went away for a weekend.
Little Women turned me into a writer. I identified with Meg but longed to be Jo.
The other night I settled down to watch a courtroom drama. In the story, defense attorneys in a gun violence case try to bribe a jury.
Little Women turned me into a writer. I identified with Meg but longed to be Jo.
My mother Ruth was sixty-nine when Alzheimer’s began its leisurely, vicious, search-and-destroy ransack of her brain.
In Jabiru, just before the wet season made tempers rise, there were complaints.

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