A tiny finger softly traces craters dotting the crook of my right arm as we wait for the summer camp bus.
A tiny finger softly traces craters dotting the crook of my right arm as we wait for the summer camp bus.
It's 3:30 and the ship is still docked.
The hand surgeon, unexpectedly hot, reminds me of Nate from Six Feet Under, which I’ve been bingeing for weeks.
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The CBD oil is three years out of date.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.