When the layers of clapboard decay and peel upward from the foundations of 200-year-old houses, they release an olfactory bouquet that my dog cannot resist.
June 1969. Nancy and I are 16 with fake IDs at Passim in Cambridge.
The Zoom session with the judge was about to start and, in five minutes, those ties that bound them so closely together disintegrated, at least legally.
An eerie whirring rises from the lake, drawing us closer. Woolly tuques pulled low over our foreheads, my husband and I shuffle down the snow-covered path toward the shore.
“PULL to Open” instructs the Marlboro Man, and sunlight is supplanted by sticky floors and the triggering scent of raw dependence. Little bottles stand uniformly for the inspection — colorful labels appearing to jostle for position.
I dropped my bag in the aisle. Then a young man stood up, motioned to his seat. "Sir? Please."
It's only six a.m., why am I up this early? The house is empty, there's no child to feed, even the cats are sleeping (as they do).
“I feel like galloping,” I say out loud. They roll their eyes, muttering about what a stupid, embarrassing idea that is, so I just take off, fast.
Aji passed surrounded by her surviving children and all her grandchildren, except her favorite one.
I see her laughing and drawing, always drawing, at the bar in front of the sink where I do dishes. I start to cry, hard, and the beans get wobbly.
I will ration them one per month, and promise myself to come home before they’re gone. This time, I won’t stay away three years.
After he reloops his belt, he holds me, asking about my plans for the day, about seeing me again. I sigh and say, "I don't really believe you."
Looking straight ahead and not too far back or too far forward – my strategy for dealing with the new normal. I straighten up, and the gut punch comes swiftly and unexpectedly.
“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.