My grade-two teacher Miss Dowd taped a chart to the blackboard extolling the benefits of a healthy breakfast.
Twelve years his junior, I look to my husband for landmarks and landmines when it comes to aging.
Four months after a concussion, I lay on the sofa wondering if I would be useless for the rest of my life.
The cop announces he’s going to dispatch the rattlesnake with his pistol.
Dad held up the envelope with one word printed on it: Yes!
We sat on a park bench, chatting about our grown children.
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.