My twin grandsons were tired and hungry, and the trip from their preschool to my place was fraught with arguments, crying, and punching.
Pim suddenly elbow-strikes my jaw and somersaults to say, “Hope you like soup, motherfucker …
The elevator door opened to chaos. A patient was coding.
You’ve got one stick, one match. Build me a fire, he says.
The fire alarm and the man in flames, both screaming. I’m gasping for air.
The night Mom is put on hospice, I am on duty and she needs anxiety medicine.
My parents argued in the kitchen.
In a small ceremony witnessed by immediate family and select closest friends, my daughter got married in a beachside rainforest in Australia, her new husband’s home country.
“You will never hold a job again,” the psychiatrist said. I was 38 years old.
I journey 8,500 miles to meet you. It takes two days and two planes.
The jeweler says they’ve done what they can, handing me the princess cut diamond soldered to a band I chose seven years ago.
He is older, stronger, and straddles me, holding my arms spread wide.
When my father passed, I wanted someone to keep me company.
In a room that smells a mix of joy, grief, and cafeteria pancakes, your birth mother makes her offering.
“Drink with me.” He lifted the glass of Guinness to my lips, holding it there like a holy chalice.
Speeding away from the campground to the nearest hospital, I'm riding on my mother’s lap ...
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.