Saturday, September 7, 1968, 8:55, five minutes to my blind date.
Saturday, September 7, 1968, 8:55, five minutes to my blind date.
When my first husband was bed-bound and nearing his last days, I made him a sweetened buttermilk cream dessert.
We sat on the balcony, my parents and I.
We had all become such fast friends.
She can't find the credit cards she hid in our house from would-be thieves when we went away.
Bags are unloaded from the trunk and I look on with trepidation.
Out on the salt flats, I imagine being at the bottom of whatever sea was once here, megalodon and ribbons of sea grass above.
My family silently bumps along the road toward an African village we’ve never heard of.
Pushing through those glass doors of Arcade-O-Mania, the darkness swallowed me whole—but I wasn't afraid.
Off-campus party junior year. Tequila: salt, shot, lime.
My grandmother wrapped my thumb with a piece of thread, the tip of my finger growing redder with each turn of the fiber.
My daughter was fourteen hours old when she stopped breathing, her lips a dusky blue.
The California King seems miles across in the cold nights without my husband.
“You’re so Vain” by Carly Simon plays on the speaker in our kitchen while my mom and I prepare Thanksgiving dinner.
My thumb hovers over the delete icon. Google Photos says the video was taken four years ago today.
My old septuagenarian legs plod up the steep hills in Golden Gate Heights, my old octogenarian dog Bruno by my side.
So useless, those crutches Alex got for her knee surgery and passed onto Gabriel after his fateful fall.
The ancient Cessna has rusty holes where rivets should be and vibrates worryingly as we ascend over cornfields.
I celebrated that your spell was broken, then you sent me a photo of you in Budapest.
The aroma of maple burning came sweet to me with unexpected warmth one subzero December night.