Her fist exploded against my shoulder, then receded with the promise of another detonation, another physical aberration from the usual verbal, mental, and emotional landmines.
Her fist exploded against my shoulder, then receded with the promise of another detonation, another physical aberration from the usual verbal, mental, and emotional landmines.
Every morning, she is there, sitting on the old, rusting clifftop bench, staring out at the ocean.
Cleaning out closets, I come across an old bag I forgot I ever had, brown with brass studs.
At sixteen, your once-round face is sharply angled, boyhood carved away.
People pack the house. Murmured conversations. Time suspended.
Heavy rain became an unexpected companion on my first visit to Mount Teide.
We walk to a nearby pond to skate wearing our rubber boots, as we don’t have money for skates.
As our professor explains the mouse euthanasia protocol, my lab partner leans over, whispering to me, “Why do they keep calling it ‘sacrificing?’”
Impatient and expectant, we waited all weekend for Arthur to proclaim his presence.
In under a minute, they rolled out the huge tent and covered the fallen horse.
I’m about to kiss my son’s forehead, planting sweet dreams, when he turns as though struck.
Since I knew no English, I was placed a year back into grade two when I came to Canada.
My father died as I stood in line for a fried chicken sandwich.
There was an incident in the other ward and we found each other poked out from our doors to listen in.
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.