“Come here! Come out here!” my father called to my little brother and me through the screen door.

On a certain bleak day in March, hundreds of mothers, fathers, and children are in a line snaking out onto the street in front of the JetBlue terminal, where the taxis and black S.U.V.s are double and triple-parked. Our family is no different.

Only your Singer knows how many times you pricked your fingers with the needle. How many times the bobbin bopped up and down, singing your praises.

My Aunt Bessie, who was known as Bobby, came to the U.S. in the early 1920s along with many other Jewish men, women, and children who had managed to survive World War I in the Russian Pale.

If Pep were here today he would tell you stories that only a lifelong bayman could. He would predict the next week of weather based solely on the tides, the way the wind had come ’round, and the current phase of the moon.

The Blue Chevy                
The Star welcomes submissions of essays for its “Guestwords” column, of between 700 and 1,200 words, and of short fiction or memoir, of up to 2,000 words. Please send submissions for review by email, in text or Word format, to...

Joe and Mack were two guys who simply could not get along. This was a problem since they worked almost side by side in the office. A certain whistle, tap of a pencil, or voice inflection and Joe was at Mack’s throat. Nobody was ever sure why,...

The drive along the Southern State Parkway was terrifying, as Emma pictured the accident in her mind over and over again and jumped as a car roared past her going at least 90. She inched her way through the hamlets of Amityville, Bay Shore, and...