A friend of mine told me about “The Spitting Lady,” an elderly woman who haunts Manhattan’s East Side by screaming at and spitting on pedestrians.
It’s evening rush and a strapping young man boards my train, takes a seat for people with disabilities.
My grandmother doesn’t get mental health issues.
Bundled against the cold, we walk along the abandoned canal. A runner passes close by and coughs the plague on me.
My sons perch like twin birds on the edge of the tub, watching me pee.
The wasp buzzed in the winter window. How did it get in?
I gasp at the touch of the stethoscope, then close my eyes and think of the beach . . .
Gerry walked me home, though my apartment was a two-minute walk from theirs; it was three in the morning and we’d been drinking.
The judge nods, and I turn to the defendant.
She won’t shut up about her new rug.
I was in a state of shock on seeing my mother after the surgery …
Weeks of preparation went into creating a perfect opening night, so much work to make it look effortless.
Yoga. First day. Last twenty minutes.
Bluebeam refuses to accept my password, which contains a capital letter, small letter, number, and symbol, 8 to 32 characters.
The girls brought out their sad dolls, destroyed from lack of brushing, and decided to donate them.
She eyed me, the girl, trailing behind her family, the mother and the father leading the pack, her younger siblings in the middle, and she, the oldest just like me, with searching eyes and mischief in her movements.
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.