Dude greets me as his Brother in Christ.
Dude greets me as his Brother in Christ.
The resident refuses to keep his shirt on but can’t take it off himself.
Let’s go on vacation, Opa muses, eyes closed.
There’s some guy jaywalking, holding out his hand like STOP to oncoming traffic.
4.7 seconds remain. Tied score. Villanova shoots.
I don't immediately notice that joy has made my heart its abode.
The teen shelter I was living in was closing.
I’m eight years old, wearing my first eyeglasses, filled with dread.
Paati paused her TV show, indicating to me that she needed the bathroom.
We had driven 1,200 miles.
“Do you need anything from the store?” I say loudly into the phone.
The day after I find my father dead in his apartment, I ask my family to share memories of him during dinner.
I accidentally dropped my father's ashtray.
At ten, I yearn to begin my grown-up life.
Everyone talks about the troubles; they tell me they can tell which side you’re on just by looking.
I ask my daughter how she likes her burgers.
Shivering from bloodloss and fasting, she lies on white sheets—the monster, razor-tongued, cold-eyed, who darkened my childhood, who binds me still.
My mother gazes across the kitchen table toward my father’s empty chair.
At seventeen, I had not yet bloomed, had barely been kissed.
It’s just after 11 and already over a hundred degrees and this lady is kneeling by the iguana on this hotass parking lot ...