On Victoria Day mama warned me about playing with fireworks in the park.
On Victoria Day mama warned me about playing with fireworks in the park.
She wandered the pathway into a clearing, startled wide awake by a tangle of brightness — lilies, zinnias, and daisies.
I saw the tiny bright pink pill slide from the pocket of his khaki pants and onto his seat, then drop to the floor next to his desk.
Forty-four years ago when we moved into this home, I found two potatoes on the basement floor.
On my last night in Trincomalee I couldn’t sleep. I lay frozen on the hard single bed, wide-awake and petrified.
No blood, but no movement either. Ambulance has already arrived.
She came out crying, holding her right arm. To my untrained eye, nothing seemed broken.
The tree surgeon inspects the trunk. He points to the outgrowths: troublesome.
My patient's oxygen levels were stable, yet he hunched over the edge of the bed, laboring to breathe. His eyes searched mine for answers.
Resisting the urge to peek at my defined abdominal muscles, I ripped an oily chip into quarters and apprehensively put a piece in my mouth, taking a deep breath.
My sister lies dying. She cradles a rag doll. “It looks like you,” she says.
The tooth still aches, unbearably, then bearably, the inner workings of my own mouth gaslighting me as I mix the pancake batter.
While we thumbed outdated magazine pages in the doctor’s waiting area, we wondered if our baby would be all right, if there were additional vitamins or a prescription we might need.
I move the throttle from idle to 2200 rpm. My hammering heart valves are louder than the small plane’s.
As I stood at shore’s edge along the coast of Newfoundland, taking photos of an island in choppy seas, the wind blew my hat off my head.
Mum and I are arguing about cosmetics again, about her tendency to hoard and let rot.
At age 56 Mom went for her college degree and I admired that. But algebra eluded her, so I offered tutelage.
I was scrubbing dried toothpaste from the sink when my inner monologue was interrupted by a yelp from my husband, downstairs.
Guests whisper and I hear. “She’s in shock.” “Foreigners don’t cry.” “Immigrants lose their roots.”
The only time I take off my wedding band is when I am slapping bread dough onto the bench, overarm. Make of that what you will.