As our ten-car train cranked up the 105-foot-tall chain-lift hill for the ninety-degree one-hundred-foot drop, I regretted hopping on.
Two eyes, haunting. Ten fingers, gripping. You hike your Elmo backpack higher.
Each morning, I see my blurry face in the shaving mirror that you left suction-cupped to my shower wall.
My grandma is obsessed with Psalm 24.
I sway back and forth anxiously while keeping my eyes riveted to the scene unfolding on our 65-inch TV.
"You have cancer." Three words no one expects to hear in their lifetime.
The beady-eyed beaky bird with glossy silver-grey coat pounced on any crumbs I tossed on my windowsill.
There are scenes from life that imprint on your mind permanently.
My mom's butt was high in the air and her head was buried in the blankets.
It was cold in the National Cathedral that rainy night forty-one years ago, and smelled of stale air and incense.
My feet can't reach the water where waves have caressed me before. I stretch to touch her with my toes.
Ms. Cookie Paul, a black businesswoman in our small Texas town, mentored us black girls.
I peer at the prices in the gas station and comment that chocolate shouldn’t cost so much.
Unidentified pain wakes me, though awareness filters slowly.
With three school-aged children, our family squeezed in a trip over winter break despite the expected frigid weather.
The gravel road ascended Mount Defiance, a Revolutionary War site.
Later, we would find out that Jeff had survived . . .
This is what happened, but it’s not when it began. We don't know when that was.
She picked up a lone sock and a jacket in one hand, a crumpled moist tissue paper in the other.
At six weeks old she is a wisp of a being who collapses against me in total repose before she finishes most bottles.