Holly Cusumano

A few weeks ago I had the chance to reconnect with some of my childhood classmates from Royersford Elementary School. I hadn't seen them in nearly 50 years. About a dozen of us gathered in a quiet restaurant. They have had these little get-togethers before, but it’s different for them. For the most part, they shared their entire school years together, graduating in 1972. Susan, the woman who sat directly across the table from me said, “I sort of remember you. Something is familiar in your eyes.” It’s weird being the kid who moved. You become a faint (if any) memory to your classmates. Just a smiling face in the group photo. “Remember Holly? She’s the one who moved.” For the one who left, time stands still. When my mother left my father in December 1963, I had no warning that my parents were divorcing. I had heard no arguments, no slammed doors. I was nine years old. So whatever the signs were, I missed them. Like every day, my best friend Sherry and I walked home from schoo

There is a cardinal rule in writing: Write what you know. So it is unfortunate that I’m gonna write about a topic I know almost nothing about. (Rule #2: Never end a sentence with a preposition.) Last October, I had the chance to visit Rodale Institute in Kutztown, Pennsylvania. Rodale is a scientific research facility associated with Rodale Press, who publishes gardening, health, and fitness books, magazines, and online content. You might be familiar with their popular publications, Prevention and Organic Gardening . My visit was sponsored by the Organic Valley Dairy Cooperative. (Ironic that I have been lactose intolerant my entire life.) (Rule #3: Use parentheses sparing.) (Rule 4: Avoid awkward words like the plural of parenthesis.) OK, sorry, I’m going to stop kidding around now and just tell my story. According to archaeological evidence, the property we visited has been farmed for 8,000 years. Others on the tour of about 30 people, worked for health food stores,

Thirty five years ago today, I had an out-of-body experience while giving birth to our son.  At the time, I didn't know how to label it or why it happened. I t was pretty weird. But when I took a poetry writing class in 1996, I knew immediately that my birthing experience would be the topic of my first poem.  Our professor said I was the only student he’d ever had who submitted a poem with a number as its title. I like being different, so this pleased me.  My classmates thought the poem was filled with symbolism; it’s not. It’s more of a report.  011478 Elevator silently slips through the dark tunnel; we burst forth Machines and metals and masks but I am lying in the grass Drab green walls, brash fluorescents sapphire sky, air, earth The illuminated and mechanized beep, beep, beep rhythmic tribal drums Phones ring, the damn TV introspection, focus, a suspended pause Isolation connected to the Clan Who’s running this body? It’s the