Gemma Ortwerth

Sometimes my partner is already gone by the time I get up. The foggy memory of a kiss on the forehead lingers. And some mornings I get up in time to make their lunch and say goodbye. This wasn’t one of them. The apartment is quiet, a silence that echoes when the person who fills it with comfort has left. Cosmo is somewhere jumping off furniture and training for Cat Ninja Warrior. Wanda is being judgmental about it, sighing with her head on my lap. The pain is already doing a number on me,...

Can you forgive them, the ones who left the world in flames, who built empires on stolen land and forgot what it meant to be humane, or is it too late, did they doom your fate? Can you forgive them, the ones who took generations to understand, the privilege held through white supremacy and colonialism's bloody hand, the ones who erased history and songs, or did they take too long? Can you forgive them, the ones who left the oceans full of trash, who tore down forests and choked the sky with...

The turkey I’m planning to cook next week weighs seventeen pounds. I’ve been texting my dad obsessively—what size roasting pan does he have, does his oven run hot, should I bring my own meat thermometer? He had surgery two weeks ago, and I’m driving out with my partner, Adrian, to make Thanksgiving dinner for the first time. I’m a good cook. I can do five sides without thinking. But a whole turkey feels different—a test I’m taking without knowing if I’m ready. My dad is allergic to cats, so...