After nine days in the hospital, I sit in lamentation in my usual spot on the sofa watching life outside the window.
Driving home late, a man lying in the road, a mangled bicycle, a BMW pulled over, three people standing in a semi-circle looking lost.
Against the breezeblock heat, a cactus wren flits in slow shutter. I simmer poolside, kiss the sweaty rim of a tall glass.
I asked how I could help him. Silence.
If I squint my imaginoscope just right, the garden shed morphs into the writing shack of my dreams . . .
“He’s not breathing,” I shouted, and I guess my friend Jerry called 911, he must have, because I was busy running across the room . . .
I doubted my eight-year-old daughter Rose when she said she would someday marry a man who would live with and care for her disabled brother, Gabriel.
We’d been in that house before. The construction was a stopped clock.
Stop scratching, Mama hisses, flicking my six-year-old fingers off my calves.
The pickup game featured plenty of contact: banging in the paint, wrestling on defense, boxing out for rebounds.
looking down at pilot on the bare linoleum, my husband said we should place him back on the blanket.
“Don’t you dare walk in empty-handed,” my mother yells to me from the kitchen.
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 . . .