Suddenly, the composition book flew out the window, landing on a busy Detroit highway's cloverleaf ramp.
Here lies an old Catholic church in Amish Country, where the graves are written in French, lined up around a ravaged Christ taller than the church next door.
I'm sitting on the couch with a bucket, slowly writing down my preferences for funeral music so my family won't have to decide.
My last delicate nerve frayed, I ignite an ill-timed confrontation, and we stand in aching tension, anticipating the distance.
I’m in a mall and there are babies everywhere.
People face the wrong way, not conforming to the pre-set maze. Staff fume, rearranging and controlling us.
At David and Faith's wedding, I was heavily pregnant and my blood pressure was dropping.
We could primal scream right here, Natalie said.
Mira in love is better than Mira in tears, I realised too late.
We will fly back home this evening, but now we are still in southern Gran Canaria, looking to the east, sitting on a bench on the deserted promenade.
Our youngest is marrying tomorrow; yesterday the last of my hair fell out, victim of my first chemotherapy treatment.
I hear the nurse gasp quietly and I crane my neck up, following her eyes across the entryway.
She withheld a cupcake from each child, asking, "What do you say?"
The hospital smells fill my nostrils as emergency room personnel rush from one area to another.
I passed the interview. Jade was next. I turned my hands into fists, hoping our practice helped.
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.