I stroke my late grandmother’s silver spoon, hung around my neck with black ribbon.
I stroke my late grandmother’s silver spoon, hung around my neck with black ribbon.
… I saw Chessie, chair bouncing behind, running up 18th Street …
I enter the kitchen through the crackle of bacon and my parents’ anger.
No one else in the hall was in love like we were, not my friends at the table sipping Cinzano, not the DJ, not even the other smooching couples.
As the morning fog cleared I realized that my mother was crying.
My mysterious neighbor’s lips curve in a sardonic smile and a single eyebrow rises mockingly when I hand her the bag.
I wasn’t prepared for the hormone-induced anxiety that accompanied my first pregnancy.
He plays gin, without cards and without any other players.
As I stumbled through the prayer book, I thought of my own bat mitzvah.
“What are you doing still awake?” followed by “Do you want a snack?”
“Can I tattoo you?” asks six-year-old Andrew.
Dad said, Come over honey, I'll cook steaks. He had a new roommate again.
The coins hit with a clink, clunk, and clang as I tossed them into his can.
Stuck in commuter traffic hell, I went Live on Facebook, jimmy-rigging my phone to the dashboard, offering viewers many minutes of stream-of-consciousness chatter.
“How much is your little angel?” It was the last one in my craft stall, lovingly made with beads and wire.
I barely spoke to him; I imagined that he barely knew who I was.
It’s a sunny day but the bedroom, its windows still shuttered, is dark and foreboding with a damp, slightly fetid odor.
My uncle’s friend Alice has sent me an email with old photos attached.
Who said hell was a burning pit below? My hell is suspended ten kilometers above ground.
My mother calls at 4:17 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving to tell me I was born 51 years ago today.