My daughter’s visit softened sterile surfaces of my home with a trail of mugs, plates, and debris, comforting signs of her presence. Our sympathetic bond assuaged my longing for connection, accumulated over months of pandemic isolation.
There was this thing where all the animals in the world were gathered up to see who could climb a tree the fastest. Every animal was there.
Downtown in summer just before punk exploded, we walked 7th Avenue around Christopher Street past the leather bars. He was so tall, he took two steps for my every one.
I inhaled the rich scent and lifted the mug to my lips. With every sip I felt the day brighten a little more.
Blood and impulse rush to the brain like voltage across copper. My unproven hands instinctively tighten, forging formidable weapons of gratuitous, youthful combat.
Her eyes, heavy with fatigue, tell her it’s time for bed, but Inspiration becomes her caffeine, her alarm clock telling her it’s time to write.
Nothing can equal the mellow and melodious jolt of accomplishment which springs forth from five minutes of sitting under the sun of an early spring afternoon and smoking a cigar which one has grown from seed.
As we learned from the movie, the concept is simple: Do something nice for someone, and have them do something nice for someone else.
Right after we swapped gifts, she asked ever so quietly what date it was and my father replied it was Christmas. I would've liked to tell her that it was her birthday, that we were celebrating her.
At five to four, Husband says, “Come outside. I fixed your snowshoes. I want you to try them.” I reply, “But I can’t, you know I have this other commitment.”
We only had two Barbies, the cheap kind with the hollow legs sold at gas stations. We sat in the swift shallows of the low-water bridge, letting the dolls argue.
The hand holding mine tugged me forward and, looking up, a spray of sympathy, she does it for sympathy, then Chanel No. 5, bright lights, and the scraping of hangers over metal rack-bones.
“Why don’t we continue this chat in person? It’s a nice night. We could kiss a little.”
I raised my arms high overhead, clutched the cool metal one hand over the other, stretched myself up. My legs wrapped around the pole like a pretzel.
A glass jar of sauerkraut leaps to my senses. Thoughts of pungent, vinegary goodness come to mind, and saliva collects under my tongue.
She’s late. In the too-bright room, Jim the mediator takes her coat and gently folds it on a separate chair.
We visited my father in Tennessee. He started the moment we arrived talking about the Waffle House.
The empty space left behind was a sieve. He filled it with beer, girls, burritos, blame. Mostly beer.
Skiing is inherently dangerous. Injuries happen all the time. I second-guessed this decision. What kind of mother . . .
I waited in the car while he shed his long leather coat and left it on the hood. Suddenly, a hand snatched it! An engine screeched! The coat gone!