Post- Magazine
goodbye for now, Providence [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | February 11I have always lived in the same place—the same suburban town, the same quiet house, the same small bedroom.
Ana Vissicchio
Post- Magazine
fill my cup? [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | September 24As my feet, clad in an obnoxious blue and orange sneaker combo, hit the pavement again and again and again, I can’t help but feel guilty.
Post- Magazine
developing [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | April 28I dip a tiny strip of photographic paper into a vat of developer and I watch it sink. Tapping it gently with popsicle-stick prongs, I let my mind wander for two whole minutes. I’ll stop the developing process by running it into the “stop bath” for half a minute, then into the fixer solution for ...
Post- Magazine
a century well loved [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | December 520 years. In January, it’ll be 21. That feels like a long time, probably because I have nothing longer to compare it to. But this weekend, I came pretty close.
Post- Magazine
echoes of autumn [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | November 13I try to catch myself. As the autumn leaves start to fall, sometimes it feels like I do too.
Post- Magazine
living with friends [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | October 9Lately, I’ve had a lot of those mornings that when I wake up, time just stretches, and I feel gelatinous. Like Jell-O. I’ve had more of them than I can count. I greet these viscous mornings with a groggy head and eyes that won’t open beyond halfway. A blindingly bright alarm clock mocks me. It’s ...
Post- Magazine
spooled [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | March 13Sun streams in through the dirty windshield of my green Subaru. I prop up my knee as I drive, and if my mother saw me, she’d be upset. But you are the one in the passenger seat next to me, twiddling with my phone to pick a song on our nine-minute drive to Michael’s.
Post- Magazine
from the kitchen table [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | February 21My feet swing under the chipped wooden table. I soak in the smell of sizzling tomato sauce. My grandmother’s hands—soft from Pond’s hand lotion but aged from years of hot oil splashes—are a blur. I watch her float from oven to stove, guiding raw ingredients into a meal. Unwashed vegetables, ...
