Tiny Love Stories: ‘My Lesbian Hallmark Christmas Film Fantasy’

The primary winter I noticed snow was the primary winter I fell in love. I’ve all the time adored the vacations, however rising up in Florida meant I by no means skilled the “White Christmas” dream. After shifting to Dallas, I began courting a lady who labored on a Christmas tree lot throughout the road from my condominium. Marleana would come over, smelling of pine, her arms toned from all of the lifting. She was my lesbian Hallmark Christmas movie fantasy. She even owned a shiny purple truck that we drove in to search out snow. Her Christmas present this 12 months? An engagement ring. — Hannah Melin

In Kolkata, “I really like you” shouldn’t be mentioned typically, and definitely to not mother and father. It’s thought of excessive; translated into Bengali, it could sound mawkish. I improvise once I name my mother and father in India from my condominium in New York. “I want I had your tenacity,” I inform my mom. I reward my father’s compassion. “Want you had been right here” is the furthest I enterprise. Yesterday, when my mom mentioned that she longed to see me and her voice faltered, I blurted out these three phrases. The guts grows fonder when mother and father are previous and away, however a pandemic makes it bolder. — Satarupa Ghosh Roy

I walked into the cramped East Village candle retailer. The person behind the counter requested what I wanted. “I heard that you just … assist individuals,” I mentioned. He rubbed his arms collectively like he was about to make his favourite meal. “I must recover from somebody,” I mentioned. He nodded and retrieved a black candle from a shelf: “I want your initials and his.” I watched as he carved my heartbreak into the wax. “Burn this for seven days. You’ll really feel higher.” On day seven, I met somebody new. It was a quick, therapeutic romance. I by no means seemed again. — Felice Neals

“Who’s that lady?” my father asks me, pointing to a framed picture on the wall. “She’s so stunning it makes me cry.” The lady within the picture is my mom, Rosemary. They had been married for 56 years earlier than she handed away. They slept in the identical mattress till the top, holding arms each evening as they drifted off to sleep. My father has Alzheimer’s. Some days he doesn’t know who she is; others he speaks as if she’s within the room, calling out over his shoulder, “Rose — ” as if reminiscence is music solely he can hear. — Amy Massingale

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