Sugar rush plus pucker from the sour.
Sugar rush plus pucker from the sour.
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.