Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer.
She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
I crawled my deflated body over to an isolated corner and tried to will myself to disappear into the floor. Disappointment and embarrassment were in a tag team battle royale with aches and pains to see who would break me first. I had just gotten my...
Snoring makes me an irrational, seething, rage-filled lunatic. My husband, Tony, fell asleep on the couch over the weekend when we were watching a movie. I was still awake and had every intention of finishing the movie. However, between the grating...
It’s withered and covered in a perpetual coating of coal dust. It is nestled deep in the bosom of the Appalachian Mountains; isolated and not particularly sophisticated. But, if you’re lucky enough to ever see the fog cascade down East River...
The day my mom died, my husband called one of my best friends, Erin, while I was in the shower drowning my tears. I needed the softness of her. He knew. By the time I emerged from the steamy bathroom in my thread-bare robe and towel turban she was...
Our tear-streaked mascara formed Rorschach masks across our faces as we held each other at arms length, circling the front yard in an awkward two-person, tequila fueled Rugby scrum. It was her dad, returning from a day of looking at farm equipment...
The store front window was coated in decades worth of coal soot. It was a deliberate aesthetic. Upon entry patrons were greeted with warped clapboard floors, smoke tinged paint that bubbled and cracked and two scales that for a penny would tell your...
The last time I saw my mom before she died was at a Memorial Day family reunion. She had bummed a ride by promising a friend a styrofoam plate heaped full of the fried chicken, potato salad and banana pudding that my aunts had spent two days...
*Part I of The Dope Letters* *Part II of the Dope Letters* However, a few months after my mom’s funeral, my father ambushed me when I stopped by my grandmother’s house. I didn’t even know that he was out of prison. There had been a traitor. Someone...
*Part I of The Dope Letters* When I pushed the dented metal door of our HUD-funded apartment open that afternoon, I expected more of the morning’s jubilant party atmosphere, but the house was quiet and it smelled like stale beer and cigarette ash, a...
We both have old eyes, eyes that have seen too much. Sad brown eyes that glint with golden flecks – when the sun hits them just right. And, our hair. God, do we have great hair. Child, you’re the spittin’ image of your daddy. I tell you what...