Our hands melt together walking the dashed yellow line, wondering who is leading who, when I trip up the curb of Lincoln Ave.
I’m walking in Père Lachaise Cemetery.
I start picking, and I’m picking, leaning in close, climbing the sink, eye-to-eye with myself.
On my projector screen, I Googled “new dictionary words 2016,” clicked the first hit, and resumed my spiel.
I work in a little grocery store with a friend who says my hair is pretty.
An hour after the ventilator was turned off, I was speaking my first words in three weeks.
I always take this bend in the road very carefully.
I'm still in pajamas but you are showered and ready for an appointment.
“Let’s address the elephant in the room,” said the sustainability expert.
“You never know until it’s too late,” my 90-year-old mother says.
All day I've thrashed in bed, pinned like a butterfly to my dreams. When I rise, darkness has fallen.
I asked her over dinner: If I were to change my name, what should I change it to?
“You don’t believe me,” my stricken mother said between sobs.
I flew to Chicago to hold her hand, but when I reached for it, tubes, tape, and a stent were in the way.
In the cramped kitchen, country ballads drift from the RCA on the counter.
In addition to the parapet of Beanie Babies bordering his desk, I envied Andrew his hitchhiker’s thumb.
I’m told she skipped school.
It’s that moment after everyone is gone, all your friends, new and old …
My pulse hit below 30. Worse than the previous times.
I didn’t bring two mugs of tea up to bed this morning. Just an Earl Grey for me.