The horse pill mocks me from the counter while my husband demonstrates, tossing back M&Ms with theatrical head-tilts.
My cousins are sitting at our dining room table, folding paper airplanes and decorating bookmarks with stickers.
“Who are you here to visit,” the hospital security guard asks.
I didn’t go to Marie’s funeral.
The autumn sun shined sideways.
Banishing my family to the other side of the door, I marinated in vinegar-flavoured anxiety as the timer-digits on my lock screen gradually morphed into zeroes.
Under the table, I sip Christmas-bulb-green liquid from a sparkling chalice being passed around with giggles and hushes.
Two hours to build the fort, which stood for just five minutes.
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The CBD oil is three years out of date.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.