“Every home needs a cornerstone ….” So began our music teacher’s original composition, which closed out the first half of our choir’s holiday show.
Grandma agreed I would drive.
Mom said we had five minutes before we had to board the ferry, so we lingered on a stony beach.
My husband’s olive drab kit bag with its sturdy straps, heavy-duty fasteners, locking flap, pocket name tape, and distinctive smell was the focal point of the room . . .
The weed high parches my mouth, means I see you in parts: freckled cheekbones, the curve of bicep at the sleeve of your indie rock band tee.
There’s a sign on this bus: Depression in men looks different. Call this number for help.
The nuns ruled us with rosary beads and yardsticks.
While playing billiards with my compadre, a boy approached and placed his hands on the table.
Amanda is sort of dating my sister’s boyfriend’s oldest brother and when he arrives at the bonfire with a piglet slung over his shoulder, his chest is a bow, her squeal an arrow.
In Quito, I rented a horse to take me to the top of the mountain’s fourteen thousand feet.
Once I sat down in the seat, the tiredness from the ten-hour flight, the dizziness from waking up too early, the soreness from standing in line for merch, all disappeared.
We connect on Tinder and agree to meet at my designated first-date spot: the art museum.
We went to Grandma's for lunch. Pizza in a cardboard box.
August. Miraculously, I’ve kept the bugs at bay for the first summer in years, though they taunt me from their hiding place.
Funeral-pyre ashes rise into fireflies floating around a baby sister resting on her brother’s lap.
On a sweaty afternoon in Massachusetts, we four strolled down the abandoned road to the beaver pond.
We both are old. That seems to be the problem.
Under the salon lights, a silver thread emerges from my dark brown hair without a lick of shame.
I stare up at her through the slats in the stable door.
I frequently visited a gelato shop near my house for their honigmelone flavour.