The book’s title alone—'Call Us What We Carry'—flips the script on victimhood. Gorman reframes grief as something active, even generative. Her poems don’t just mourn; they excavate. References to Ellis Island, war letters, and even TikTok dances show grief as layered history. I’m obsessed with how she uses archival material to argue that collective memory is survival. The section 'The Truth in One Nation' reimagines the Pledge of Allegiance as a call to face hard truths together. It’s political but never preachy—more like an outstretched hand. After reading, I started noticing shared grief everywhere: in sidewalk memorials, in viral eulogies online. That’s the magic of her work—it changes how you see the world.
I was surprised by how visceral 'Call Us What We Carry' felt. Gorman treats grief like weather—something that passes through everyone but leaves different marks. The poem 'Memorial' wrecked me; its list of mundane losses (handshakes, crowded theaters) captures how grief lives in small absences. What’s brilliant is how she balances macro and micro perspectives. One moment she’s quoting statistics, the next she’s describing a single empty chair at a dinner table. This interplay makes collective grief tangible—you see both the forest and the trees. I also appreciate her playful language amid heavy themes, like the palindrome poem 'Closure' that reads the same backward. It’s like she’s saying: grief loops, but so can healing.
Reading 'Call Us What We Carry' feels like holding a mirror up to the shared wounds of our time. Gwendolyn Brooks once said, 'We are each other’s harvest; we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond.' Amanda Gorman’s collection echoes that sentiment, stitching individual sorrows into a tapestry of collective resilience. The pandemic isolated us physically, but her poems—like 'The Hill We Climb'—remind us grief can be a bridge, not just a burden. I love how she blends historical echoes (like the Spanish flu) with modern imagery, making the past whisper to the present. It’s not about wallowing; it’s about finding strength in the act of naming our pain together.
What struck me most was the way she uses form to mirror chaos and healing. Erasure poems, fragmented lines—they mimic the disorientation of loss, but the rhythm always pulls toward hope. That duality makes the book feel alive, like a heartbeat under your fingertips. Maybe that’s why it resonates so deeply: it doesn’t just describe grief; it enacts the messy, nonlinear process of carrying it as a community.
Gorman’s collection hit me like a late-night conversation with a friend where you realize halfway through that you’re both crying. The focus on collective grief isn’t just thematic—it’s structural. Poems like 'Fugue' layer voices like a choir, turning 'I' into 'we' without erasing individuality. I’ve dog-eared pages where she references ships (the Argo, Titanic) as metaphors for societal fragility. It’s clever how she ties maritime disasters to our pandemic experience—both reveal how easily we sink or swim together. The book doesn’t offer pat answers, though. Some sections ache with unresolved questions, and that honesty is what makes it stick. I keep returning to the line 'What if we’re not / What if we won’t be / What if we were never / Ruined.' It’s that tentative, trembling hope that lingers.
When Isla Bennett lost her parents at ten, the Callahans gave her a home and Noah Callahan gave her a reason to stay. For eight years, they’ve been inseparable, an "anchor and ship" navigating life side-by-side.
But senior year is changing math. As Noah’s perfect relationship cracks, he’s forced to admit a devastating truth: every girl he’s ever dated was just a substitute for the one he can’t afford to lose. Now, as Isla prepares to leave for Chicago, they must decide if their lifelong bond is worth protecting, or if the love they’ve denied for years is worth risking the only family they have left.
Because sometimes the hardest person to fall for is the one who already feels like home.
One wrecked plane.
Two wrecked souls.
JANE REYNOLDS is comfortable with her boyfriend LUCAS JOHNS.
The problem is Lucas' friend REMY HANES doesn't make Jane feel comfortable, he makes her feel alive. One drunken night things get heated, leaving them with a fire in desperate need of extinguishing.
When their Spanish class leaves for a trip to Spain, their expected fun turns to Hell on Earth when the plane crashes, and leaves only a few survivors. With loved ones lost, Remy and Jane cling tight to one another to survive the hot days and hungry nights.
If the events on the mountain don't kill them, their guilt of loving one another might.
Sometimes love wrecks you before it claims you.
When Alexander Smith stands in front of me and says he's going to marry someone else, that's when I realize he's been reborn too.
I remember our 20 years of love in our past life. A plane crash. And then, rebirth.
"This is to save Sophia," he says. "In our past life, she was sold to a Vostmark oligarch after her father's political scandal. Not long after, she took her own life due to abuse. I can't let that tragedy happen again, so I need to get engaged to her."
As he speaks, he hands me an orange prescription bottle.
"If you take this, you'll forget me for a little while. You won't feel the pain. It's just seven days. Once her father's scandal blows over, you'll stop the medication and your memory will return. Then I'll end the engagement and officially propose to you."
I stare at the bottle, knowing it's a lie.
Not the part about Sophia's suicide. The lie is about the drug.
He thinks it only causes temporary memory loss. But I know better.
The suppressant causes permanent damage to emotional memory.
The seven-day countdown isn't the time it takes for my memories to return.
It's the time it takes for my love for him to die.
Loving someone at the wrong time is a big mistake. However, persisting in a situation that is not possible, is also not the right choice. Dinda just wants to fight for her happiness, and punish all those who have sinned against her. Then go from that sad place to a faraway place. Meet a good man, and live happily. But to break all that, Dinda had to go through one battle first.
Mia, a beautiful and innocent girl, is running away from someone. When she stumbles upon a city, she's determined to have a fresh start. But it isn't as peaceful as it seems to be, as mysteries and murder lurk just beneath the surface. Even more so when she becomes entangled with two men, both hiding something. When the bodies begin piling up, who is to blame?
It would seem Mia has never gotten away at all.
The heart of 'What We Lose' is its raw exploration of grief, and it’s one of those books that lingers long after you turn the last page. Grief isn’t just a theme here—it’s the backbone of the story, shaping every memory, every interaction. The protagonist’s loss of her mother isn’t a single event; it’s a ripple effect that colors how she sees love, identity, and even her own body. The book doesn’t offer neat resolutions, which makes it feel painfully real. Life doesn’t wrap up grief with a bow, and neither does this narrative.
What struck me most was how the author uses fragmented storytelling—photos, lists, vignettes—to mirror the disjointed way grief messes with your head. It’s not linear; it’s messy, looping back when you least expect it. That structure pulled me in because it felt like someone finally put into words how loss actually feels. There’s a universality to it, too—whether you’ve experienced a similar loss or not, the book makes you ache alongside her, questioning how much of ourselves is tied to those we’ve loved and lost.