I held my breath. Our foreheads touched on my pillow.
I held my breath. Our foreheads touched on my pillow.
I’ve waited with you all three years of your life, as letters arranged on your tongue searching for order.
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.