I’d heard that Europeans went topless at the beach and tried it solo the summer of my twenty-second year.
Something between a thud and a crack. Almost soundless, yet not.
We spark the menthol loosie, purchased for a quarter.
I didn't cry when I folded Dad’s clothes into Bags For Life (irony not lost).
“Are you ready?” asks the minister. I look up at my father, expecting him to lead the way down the aisle.
On a Sunday, I watch orange permeate the sky while my 18-month-old rhythmically caps, uncaps a pen, draws, and repeats.
Canada Day and the street is full of people, full of red and white and sun and music.
I should not have taken the canal shortcut. Not at this time of night.
Standing behind the heavy curtain, I quiet my excited mind.
Tingly, in the best possible way. Fleeting, as it melts and trickles to my nose tip.
He knows to stop before the road; he always does.
I removed the training wheel on the right side. It was about time I took some risks.
My brother’s been home from detox for one day and he’s telling me he needs some kind of pill.
“Have you taken the Guinness tour?” the guide asks.
At my best friend’s house, you could pad indoors from the pool, bathing suit damp, hair in long chlorinated twists.
Too many unfamiliar faces gather in intimate rooms, using the language I’m least proficient in—body language.
I dress myself in a fine silk skirt, the color of red wine, covered in open peonies . . .
Tonight, as it creaks open, and my head spins towards the hallway, as though the truth were only a nightmare . . .
Labels, slapped across cellophane, covering flesh in the meat aisle, read “half price.”
How had I never considered the possibility that he’d sell his house by the ocean, where I most felt her?