If the world slipped off its axis and unravelled into oblivion, this is the moment that would play on the screen of my mind.
My mother collapsed on a cruise ship and was airlifted to California.
I rolled out the dough, transmuting kneaded ball into disc.
I was on my knees in the wheelchair, facing the hospital security guard.
Our preschool class prepped for the celebratory “roll to the bottom”; fifteen bodies, head to toe, with one hair-raising goal in mind.
Tears partway up the mountain because she’s collected too many rocks and we tell her she can’t carry them all to the top.
The truck stops. Today is the day they come to get the wheelchair.
New Year’s Eve night, 1979. The Neelachal Express is hurtling down the tracks at full speed.
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.