My interviewer has just emailed me that his wi-fi is terrible, and that our video call will now be a simple, old-fashioned phone call. So there’s no one to see that I’ve put on pants—
My interviewer has just emailed me that his wi-fi is terrible, and that our video call will now be a simple, old-fashioned phone call. So there’s no one to see that I’ve put on pants—
I choose rye, it seems dignified and things are awfully broken.
Pennies in the fountain reflecting the casino’s lights are incandescent copper. I sit by the water taking in the humans around me, some of them masked.
Only three people had the number: One never called, one was dying, and the last was my Aunt Sandra. When it rang that August morning, I stood and watched it.
My grandmother believed you could tell a lot about people by their guest bathroom, hence the concern emerging in this coffin-like space: wallpaper of expressionless clowns framed like photo-booth mug shots from the local precinct, like sepia-toned images found on library microfiche while researching for a report on Wyatt Earp.
I peel seventeen soaked almonds. I prepare a concoction of Ayurvedic water that alleviates acidity. I cut a lemon and squeeze to curdle milk for a bowl of cottage cheese.
An unusually cold Australian winter morning. The light creeps just so, momentarily tricking me into thinking I’m tucked away in my London apartment, despite the distance in years since I've lived there.
Dad, can we stop in Michigan? A grunt from the driver’s seat. Dad! I’ve never been to Michigan. I can get another state!
The hawk coasts on warm air currents, loose, wavy orbits around an invisible center. He climbs higher—a black speck in the swell of blue sky—his appearance surely a sign to guide me, comfort me, remind me of my place.
In the Holles Street Hospital maternity ward I was one of fourteen women facing each other through a dense pall of cigarette smoke from our beds across an expanse of linoleum floor. The babies were rolled up like loaves of fresh bread in metal cots at the foot of each of our beds.
Did we mean nothing? Did I imagine all of those affectionate times, when it seemed like I was your world?
I’d been in that headspace so many times, I immediately empathized and wanted to help. I didn’t want to intrude, but asked her “Are you okay?”
Pinch your nose, I tell him. He’s half crying, half giggling as I wipe his hands and face, as I remove his bloody clothes.
Minute one: I tell Phil he’ll be free.
I stand at the kitchen sink washing the one thing I took from home after you died: The Madonna & Child statue I meditated on—kneeling before you beaten, traumatized, loving you, year after year.
I know. I dreamt it last night. A giggling tow-headed toddler girl skipping away from me in a meadow. That’s how I knew last time.
I imagine a Foley artist expressing the visuals through sound. Scouring pad sandpaper blancmange emery board crushed clothes pegs pebbles slap of a rump steak chewing a wishbone knitting needles stabbing an old balloon filled with syrup.
Day Four of Air Force Basic Training and I still had hair. I can’t serve my country with thick, black curls, wearing my favorite Motörhead T-shirt.
I ventured in my thoughts to wild places, making promises to myself I knew wouldn’t see the light of day and yet, in that moment, I believed in.
A line ran down the middle of the hallway in the DePaul Behavioral Health Center in New Orleans. You didn’t cross it.