The nurse wheeled our child away and my husband held the wall up so he would not crumble.
The nurse wheeled our child away and my husband held the wall up so he would not crumble.
Frustrated, I slow my pace as the wind whips the words from my ears.
I skim my father’s vanity-published, dictated, ghost-written memoir, as short and overcompensated as a two-block parade …
On our scooter ride home, my nine-year-old daughter asked, “Would it upset you if someone messed with your things?”
I couldn’t have known that her shoes would be important.
I push backward gently and lift my feet from the ground, the swing holding me tight.
It’s a Wednesday morning. Twenty-four bullets from a National Guard .50 caliber machine gun rip into Tanya Blanding’s four-year-old body.
Outside, glass-blue sky and air-sucking heat, avocado arms reached up from saguaros with spiked, crimson-tipped ocotillo neighbors.
The earring is antique gold with garnets and seed pearls.
“Do you see that handsome man over there?”
Once the mail carrier left, I rushed to yank out the envelope.
The popcorn man stands on the same corner.
My mother-in-law looks fragile, her arms mottled from blood draws and IVs.
I hear it, or some variation, whenever I cut across the corner wedged between coffee shop, liquor store, and the yield running off Osborne Street to River Avenue.
On my first visit home to Barbados, I stayed with Mum and her sister Vi, aptly known as the widowed dragons.
A hundred naked young men sat on a concrete floor, my seventeen-year-old self included.
When my 16-year-old was getting ready to see his friends, a knot developed in my gut.
I sashay into the bathroom, humming an upbeat tune.
Tall but awkward, I have always loved playing basketball.
Multiple construction deadlines and a meeting in five minutes.