I streamed a new NBC show about a neurodivergent doctor.
I streamed a new NBC show about a neurodivergent doctor.
Pink and black dots constellate the toilet bowl.
I only knew of two kinds of hysterectomies: total or partial.
Today is all about the Earth.
The game starts, as it always does, on the mulch by the back slide.
After Michael died by suicide I began compulsively lying to strangers.
A burning scent signals me to turn towards the stove.
Pine needles. They’re everywhere, mixing with red clay at the base of the long drive.
Trusted watering can in hand I approach my greenhouse.
They enter the dance studio in an energetic buzz—tiny humans in pink leotards with bulging little bellies.
My grandfather taught me, leaning over his pool table, cigar stuck in his teeth as he squinted at the ball.
While the others switch partners, we stay together, working on our steps, fumbling and laughing.
You can’t tell from the photo, but I was completely undone.
Friday, 2 a.m. I’m walking home through darkness, sobering fast, from the dive bar I am barely old enough to work at.
I sit at our tall dining room table, home from college.
“Do you think you’ll remarry?”
“Aren't you coming for the protest?” asked my hostel roommate while combing his silky hair.
The hike had lasted four hours already. Complaints reached an all-time high.
The first time the Gulf waters rise to lick my unsuspecting son’s ankles, he loses his balance.
“Whatchu you in for?” she asked. “They said I need a break,” I replied.