Pushing through those glass doors of Arcade-O-Mania, the darkness swallowed me whole—but I wasn't afraid.
Off-campus party junior year. Tequila: salt, shot, lime.
My grandmother wrapped my thumb with a piece of thread, the tip of my finger growing redder with each turn of the fiber.
My daughter was fourteen hours old when she stopped breathing, her lips a dusky blue.
The California King seems miles across in the cold nights without my husband.
“You’re so Vain” by Carly Simon plays on the speaker in our kitchen while my mom and I prepare Thanksgiving dinner.
My thumb hovers over the delete icon. Google Photos says the video was taken four years ago today.
My old septuagenarian legs plod up the steep hills in Golden Gate Heights, my old octogenarian dog Bruno by my side.
So useless, those crutches Alex got for her knee surgery and passed onto Gabriel after his fateful fall.
The ancient Cessna has rusty holes where rivets should be and vibrates worryingly as we ascend over cornfields.
I celebrated that your spell was broken, then you sent me a photo of you in Budapest.
The aroma of maple burning came sweet to me with unexpected warmth one subzero December night.
I don’t want to get up. If I get up, I have to get ready.
In the school's parking lot, I'm a bull in a china shop.
After years of failed attempts to conceive, Ling adopted the baby her relative didn’t want.
The Ridge Street bus to Nichols Junior High halted abruptly, sending those of us perched on seats sideways to the floor.
They flocked to the clinic after Saving Private Ryan, grizzled veterans awash in fifty-year-old memories.
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.