The jar fought me.
The jar fought me.
The three of us sat at the dinner table, TV news a few feet away.
We drink on the tracks behind our old school, tucked under the exhale of pines.
Two months after the divorce, you attend a wedding with your ex-husband.
I wake up sweating. Click on the ceiling fan.
When I wake up for the second time my hangover has mostly abated, and there is a pigeon nesting on the roof.
My grade-two teacher Miss Dowd taped a chart to the blackboard extolling the benefits of a healthy breakfast.
Twelve years his junior, I look to my husband for landmarks and landmines when it comes to aging.
Four months after a concussion, I lay on the sofa wondering if I would be useless for the rest of my life.
The cop announces he’s going to dispatch the rattlesnake with his pistol.
Dad held up the envelope with one word printed on it: Yes!
We sat on a park bench, chatting about our grown children.
Sugar rush plus pucker from the sour.
The old man hands me his phone.
Piece by piece, my small hands carefully fit together the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen . . .
I am two years old.
The stoop light still worked, but had begun blinking and flashing like a disco-era strobe light.
Three weeks after my father died we held a burial ceremony followed by a late lunch at a kitschy chain bistro.
We were tense, we hadn’t spoken all day.
House to half, then to black. Barbara Cook glides onstage . . .