She called him Peeg. He was a stuffed pig born at IKEA, on a trip when I needed candles and she needed distraction.
She called him Peeg. He was a stuffed pig born at IKEA, on a trip when I needed candles and she needed distraction.
The pastor raises his hands and loosely smiles at the Sunday regular crowd. Satisfied, he begins his prayer. "Dear Lord, let our children find prosperity . . . "
I’m in the ER with a kidney stone. There’s an IV for the pain.
Man, what a tough crowd.
It looked like a police lineup for little kids. Three sisters, ages nine, five and almost four, and one pacing adult.
I’m in my final year of high school and recently announced plans to go to art school, a life-long dream.
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.