Remember when our dreams were simply slips of paper, scrawled in minutes, torn with careless confidence, and tacked to beams that crossed through darkness overhead in the attic above your room?
Remember when our dreams were simply slips of paper, scrawled in minutes, torn with careless confidence, and tacked to beams that crossed through darkness overhead in the attic above your room?
I danced along the village street and a couple called from their rose garden.
I’m helping Jessie cook chicken in the wok. It’s cold outside, but warm in here.
It’s called sewing-machine leg, that quiver in a calf that borders on cramp. I’m clinging to the rock face like a limpet, fingertips raw, adrenaline coursing.
A tiny human just tried to shove me down the basement stairs. And giggled about it.
Relief licks my bones. Our infant son will not die.
Head Adderall-cleansed, tea on the coffee table, should be called the tea table, haven’t been allowed coffee since my stomach said no.
An orange herd of elbows, knees and ponytails stampedes down the court. On the cusp of womanhood, their bodies are a myriad of developmental stages.
I remember him, but not his name; stoic, a keen intellect, just shy of government-sanctioned retirement age. A mountain of hospital bills added to the depression he was being treated for.
I lay on the narrow table, left arm bent over my head, hospital gown open to expose my left side. The biopsy was over.
Born of fierce independence and intent on passing this on to his children, my father required us to learn from his excellent financial acumen.
“There’s nothing more that we can do here, ma’am,” one of the paramedics said.
“I didn’t know you hated me,” she texted. “Me neither,” I texted back. “What’s up?”
I had one of those trendy layered haircuts common in the ’80s, but it required precise curling every morning.
I sit on the idling school bus, knitting a scarf and waiting for the other students to board so we can all go home, but the head that appears at the front of the bus belongs to my father, not a fellow student.
I have always been a stickler for meticulous preparation and planning, perhaps dating back to my Boy Scout days or maybe just a product of my OCD.
I thought being bullied by girls I used to consider friends was bad.
You find me in a pile of katanas and kimonos, browsing the sake cups we’ll toast your 21st birthday with.
I bounce the ball downcourt, shift left, then right, dribble the ball from one hand to the other. The noise of the crowd fills my head, my muscles tense, but I press on.
My bare knees on the rough sidewalk, my hand to his shoulder, I’m shouting, “Hey mister, take a breath!”