The old man hands me his phone.
The old man hands me his phone.
Piece by piece, my small hands carefully fit together the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen . . .
I am two years old.
The stoop light still worked, but had begun blinking and flashing like a disco-era strobe light.
Three weeks after my father died we held a burial ceremony followed by a late lunch at a kitschy chain bistro.
We were tense, we hadn’t spoken all day.
House to half, then to black. Barbara Cook glides onstage . . .
Annabelle and I sit in her sunny backyard, sipping fresh lemonade, reminiscing about our twelve years working at nature parks.
I remember that reunion. It was cocktail hour, everyone in their finery.
My grandpa and I sat in his rowboat on a blistering hot summer day with cane poles in the water.
Six flimsy boxes, ten McNuggets each, and hot fries?
In the vending machine’s glare, I weighed my options.
I watched holes bloom on the target, nowhere near where I aimed.
This time, someone emails to subpoena records of my supposed coworker.
The phone rings once before her slender fingers cradle the receiver.
“It’s time.” I know exactly what Dad means and jump up, abandoning my dolls.
I am nineteen and newly arrived in Manhattan to become a writer.
My mother’s eyes open as I enter the room with Dunkin’ coffee, a blueberry cake donut, and two daisies.
At the theme park, the skies broke open.
The therapist holds back tears as I describe the summer my anorexia started.