I will get there too late, but I don’t know this yet, nor do I know I’ll never see the hospital bed . . .
My charismatic friend M- writes stories on a camcorder.
The CBD oil is three years out of date.
I’m in Asda, three days before Christmas, when my sister texts to say she’s in hospital.
i wake from a nightmare, face glistening with sweat, you beside me . . .
I wake with a start. I can’t see in the dark hotel room, but I hear something.
I love going to the movies, especially as I’m now old enough to go to a Saturday afternoon matinee by myself.
We sit side by side in the silent waiting room.
Baseball practice was nearly over when the car jumped the park’s sidewalk.
Even before I’d touched my newborn, the surgeon asked, “Are you planning to have more children?”
“Oooowww!” The small, hard projectile punches my thigh with bruising force.
I wanted to stop by the funeral, see off Uncle Paul.
I was walking in the park looking for the next good photo.
This morning, the warmth of tea drifted through the kitchen, soft as dawn.
“All ladies like getting flowers,” she had told him, as if explaining the world to him.
The house is cold, always.
I was riding the bus home when I heard students talking about math.
We sat down at a Nakseongdae restaurant, mixing soju with beer.
It’s 6:30 p.m. Dinnertime is 7, but tabby Bert struts around the room . . .
Today I’m ready to purge my closet.