When Covid strikes, my daughter is in Kent on a university fellowship.
When Covid strikes, my daughter is in Kent on a university fellowship.
The oncology nurse had a list and was lecturing us about the foods that chemotherapy was about to take off the menu.
I let my mother bake the cake, which could be a treat, but she halves the sugar, substitutes oil with applesauce, skips the salt …
We were in the spaceship room, a place for kids in the pediatric ward to float away between tests and rests.
There are many things I could do right now: take out the trash, water your plants, unload the washing machine, wash the dishes, massage your shoulders, vacuum the room.
I wake my daughter, tell her it’s time.
Am I really willing to die for these kids?
Nature and magic collided the first time I saw deer in a field behind my house.
I was loitering in the parking lot when the armed robber ran out of the store.
On the streets of downtown Vancouver, Gong Gong’s movements were more of a shuffle.
“It’s adrenaline,” the psychiatrist tells my quaking body, my chattering teeth.
A week temping in a squat building plunked along a nowhere road in Minnetonka, Minnesota.
When we reached the top of the hill we saw an ascetic in simple robes meditating.
“No, I don’t need a wheelchair,” I say, trying to assert my autonomy, but then a nurse sees me take a shortened step — a near-miss trip.
One moment I was doing stock and the next I locked myself in one of the bathrooms.
He doesn’t see me, the dog walker. Not yet.
After four months of no contact I spotted him in a bar.
I was on bus in Yosemite. The bus driver told us the funniest questions he’d been asked.
My brother and I are giving my dad a shower. It’s a literal shitty mess.
We left in a cab.