“How are you?” She’s walking friendly toward me in a Walmart-blue vest. I “hello” back. “Oh, I’m actually talking to the blue jay.”
I blurt: “I love you.” He’s startled. Pauses.
Two pairs of socks. A knit cap. Fingerless gloves. I am now prepared to step into . . . my living room.
“Come on!” she whispered. We’d snuck into the McGuinn’s basement where Andy kept his bicycle.
And I just sent an email praising my coworkers for making it the first few weeks with no cases.
My mother’s voice, calling out that she has brought friends over to say hello and see our house,
within sight of the ocean. Our clothes are a good distance away by the back door.
I watch myself as I run through the apartment, screaming her name. This is a movie and I am not me but someone paid to be me who doesn’t quite know how to move in my body.
The M-16’s muzzle is pointed down-range at the target: a human outline.
"Sandy, do you have a nine-year-old daughter?" Hyper-alert, pulled from work's reverie, I hesitantly said, "Yes."
Penelope is a rat. She lives in my daughter's room and likes to sit on my shoulder and snuffle in my ear.
We talked about my week at school or a movie we planned to see. Suddenly my mom would say “There’s your husband!”
First bite, no problem. Second bite felt wrong: cold and squishy.
Gingerly, I hang that old-fashioned orb of sparkle on a pine branch. Glass ornaments can shatter so easily.
I look at her smoking-ruined face and can't imagine the pain she is in.
The crowd of four-year-olds rushed and shouted behind the placid teacher. "Allez, Allez!"
I could play devil’s advocate about your t-shirt, but I won’t.
Every movement impulse sent from brain to body was measured, defensive. Being awake and outside at that hour had cracked the shell of security formed by months of carefully-monitored routine.
I arrive prepared, having typed my concerns beforehand. I’ve been summoned for a meeting with my coach and some board members
He grabs the dusty cardboard box and bustles down the attic ladder and into the living room. I follow.
Shhh...listen. I swear I just heard someone whisper *bananas* over the store Muzak!