Dear Readers,

When we launched Waterwheel Review, we were keen to explain why we were so moved and motivated by the image of the waterwheel. Water stands for language, an ever flowing, renewable source; the waterwheel, an engine of labor, circles through, lifting words and then dropping them back into the running stream. Our magazine is a mill, we said, where the waterwheel powers writing and publishing. “We want—and need—to make things.”

For a couple of years, now, we have known that we can’t make enough of our own things while we give so much energy to the work of others. We have had to cut substantially the time and attention devoted to our own writing, and mostly we have been glad to do it, determined to find a way to repay our own work in the end. We never did find that way.

If we could quit our jobs and earn that income publishing this magazine, we would take that deal in an instant. But that’s not the world we live in. For many, many months we have known this, but we couldn’t accept it until now. And thank goodness for that.

Every single issue of this magazine has been a wonder that transported and enchanted us. We can’t say we gloried in every moment. We read or edited or built the site at times while sick, exhausted, grieving—that’s the nature of any publication. But we damn well gloried in every word, every paired image and sound.

Four years and thirty-six issues: What an honor to publish our contributors. What a privilege to offer stunning work to our readers. We must use the word pleasure, too, always rolled out to accompany “honor and privilege,” but pleasure isn’t strong enough, nor is gratitude nor joy nor blessing. For once we find ourselves at a loss for words to express precisely what it has meant to keep this waterwheel turning.

Maybe this will do it: How many times does anyone ever fully achieve the glittering, half-glimpsed vision floating above; that winking, flirting piece of art we ache to manifest? For the three of us, precisely this once.

We will keep making things and so will you. We started this magazine with the image of the waterwheel and a Jean Rhys quote, and we will end in the same way, as we thank you for reading and submitting, and wish you and yours all the very best:

Listen to me. All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don’t matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.

—Claire, Suzanne, Cheryl

September 1, 2024: Waterwheel Review will stay online for the foreseeable future. It remains as it looked for the final June 2024 issue.

Nancy Huggett

Fractions Are Numbers that Are Not Whole

Nancy Huggett

June 2024

Half of what we say is true. The other half detours and deflects. Half-truths falling like seeds into soil. What will sprout? Half of what we hear scatters too. Even more in doctors’ offices, 3/4s of the facts evaporating under the holographic glare of flickering lights; 1/2 of what is left—1/8th—misremembered. Remembered, misremembered, that day it all floated through fluorescent hallways until I followed its factual tracks, nailed it back in a spiral notebook with a leaky pen because my mother mind, tied vagally to my heart, could not bear the truth of it. All facts, no fiction, some room for debate. 1/6th? Which fleshy organ in my daughter’s body, that grew in mine, had caused the strokes? One truth was doctor-delivered whole in the last few frantic minutes of his ER shift, pulling me aside hissing: Not a sprint but a marathon, not a sprint but a marathon. Wedged into the drip

drop

of

facts

that rapidly emerged. A stroke, the whole of our halves, our daughter, had had a stroke. The major portion of her inner carotid artery—let’s say 7/8ths—blocked by a rare neurodegenerative disease. So rare, that only a unit fraction—or 1/1,000,000th of the people in this world (but 1/3rd of my family)—were ever diagnosed. Only half of this, maybe less, made any sense to me, crouched, a mere fraction of myself—let’s say 1/16th—on the cold linoleum floor.

Nancy Huggett is a settler descendant who lives, writes, and caregives in Ottawa, Canada on the traditional unceded territory of the Algonquin Anishinaabeg people.