It was Saturday at the indoor farmers market and I was half awake as I stood in line for pickles. “Where are you from?” the vendor asked.
I arrive in rubber boots to help Rich and Nancy process their flock.
The irony is, I am not a judgmental person, and yet here we are, you (cowed) and I (robed), you telling me about how a night out celebrating your birthday turned terrible . . .
Vacation adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I tackle the mountains of laundry.
The nurse croons encouragement as the anesthesiologist mumbles, “It will sting.”
As I step off the airplane, tropical heat wallops me like a bag of bananas to the face.
I am three years old, standing on my twin bed, gazing at the wall.
Snow swirls along the icy black asphalt. I jarringly skid left . . .
His head rested on top of mine as his arms enveloped me. “I just get scared sometimes,” he said.
Dad, as always, noticed first. Giant paw prints in snow behind a granite boulder.
Now I’m buckling down.” I press Send before I can soften the text with lies.
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.