We were heading north on I-95 in my little green Fiesta, Dad’s head grazing the passenger-seat ceiling.
“On your mark . . . set . . . BANG!”
I started rehab the same week my husband had to be out of town for his new job.
I can't tell the difference between poplar and beech but I do know they both burn and that's all that I need for them to do.
Every time Chad walks past the conference room he yells to me, “Amber is out to lunch!”
I'm an ant, or smaller, like a dot.
The clock ticks as my IV drips, interrupted by the whirs of an inflating blood pressure cuff.
After work, my toddler and I perform our daily ritual.
I had only been looking for an empty box.
Ahead, a wide road of surging behemoths. KFC stands tall opposite.
Yeller doesn’t come out often but when he does, I can hear him coming.
I wait with bated breath when the head crowns; there’s no going back now.
A cramp grips my lower abdomen. The lift is down. Uber overcharged me.
Summers spent at the lake included trips into town, which was filled with colorful cafes and sprightly stores stacked like a children's library full of vibrant books.
I found his obituary fifty years after I left our mill town for college.
We missed the 2008 window when LGBTQ couples could marry; it quickly closed.
I can't turn on my faucet. Do I wash plates in the bathtub?
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.