Four dirt roads converge a quarter mile up the hill from my house. In August the dust gets so dry at the crossroads that I can see every track.
We flew down a country road on his 175cc Honda, roared up a hill, missed a curve, climbed an embankment and went airborne above a fallow field.
“I have to leave,” I tell my sister. We are in my room, the plywood of my floors exposed and my walls still unpainted.
When I was a kid, my mother never ate with us. She waited until we left the table to pick from our plates with her fingers.
The cards fell like rain, but my eyes followed them, steady.
She sneaks over, an 85-year old kid with a secret.
Leandro approaches me in the street, holding his skateboard. I want to avoid him.
I was glad Dad couldn’t read expressions when he slid a disheveled birthday present across my kitchen counter.
“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.