“Cul-de-Sac,” by Andrea Cohen

July 20, 2026Like all tyrants,my mother madedecrees. The laststraw was the lawthat said: no frogsinside the house.The lousy universe!I was seven and readyto flee with nothing. Atleast take a sandwich,my mother said,tucking a foil brickinto the kerchiefI’d tied to a stick. Iwas a real hobo.I barely watched herwatch me walk off.I got all the wayto the cul-de-sacand sat down to eat.It was a sandwichfull of grief––grief and salt,grief and tomatoes,grief and cheese.How far intofar did I go?How is itmy glass of milkwas still coldwhen I got home?