Every weekday morning, a small group of children bustles out of the building across the street with two or three adults ushering them safely to the bus stop.
I became an unreliable narrator when I insisted on going.
My roommate and I come home tipsy in heels and short dresses, tossing purses on the couch and heading to the kitchen for something to soak up the alcohol.
It was my grad advisor’s birthday but I’d forgotten, too busy running experiments to think of anything other than my project.
Kindergarten “show-and-tell” day.
I pace the tracks, one eye on my watch, the other searching for my best friend, Louise.
My father wears his cowboy hat as we lug crab nets along the Chesapeake.
Outside the Y a mother plops her shrieking toddler onto a stone bench for a stern talking-to.
My wife tells me Randall called. She reminds me I met him and his wife, Gloria, at her class reunion a couple years ago.
We wind our way along the canal ribboned with trees shifting into fall brilliance, sky an azure stillness and everything turning.
Before I begin this chapter of my life, Sandy should know about my past.
The face is friendly, with slender, graceful arms that I can’t see moving.
There wasn't enough entertainment when I was growing up.
My mother tells me her new boyfriend calls her every day at seven.
Mile eighteen. My body speaks to me; it tells me to stop.
Lying still, curled tight, I try to calm my frenetic mind by focusing on the inaudible breaths of my two young sons asleep down the hall.
Just a few short months into a makeshift marriage—husband again seeing the woman he promised he’d left behind—I sat in our ’67 Plymouth . . .
Your father is in good health? my doctor inquires, updating my family medical history.
My mom and I made the trek to downtown Nairobi to buy a wrought-iron lamp to hang above her dining room table.
Everyone, including white people, sees it.