We’re watching Rudy. It’s my favorite film: Against the odds, an underdog from the wrong side of town gets into Notre Dame to play football.
Every evening, the kettle boiled twice. Once for the tea, and once because she forgot she had already made it.
Seconds after I declared their beautiful baby dead and his mother nodded gently, his father placed him in my arms to bring him to the waiting transplant surgeon.
Tighten that fitting while I finish under here, I said. It’s been leaking.
I needed to leave her therapy program immediately; I had a plane to catch.
Fourteen years after our teenage bodies taught each other how to fuck, I saw you, lankier than ever, in a ratty white T-shirt holding a printed boarding pass . . .
My mom sat on the edge of my bed, a book explaining women’s bodies open between us.
The fridge light is the only thing cutting through the darkness.
I leave the pediatrician’s office walking, glance over my shoulder then walk faster, slip into my car and lock the doors deftly . . .
For reasons only the truly unhinged can explain, my Driver’s Ed teacher barked, “Get tough!”
September 11, 2001. Our neighbours in Chennai lived across the landing.
Depression and Texas heat held me down hard one summer until I discovered a glittering mineral spring in the scrublands.
Over the crackling phone line, she asked, flat and ancient, “Are you a witch?”
She massaged my scalp and started talking immediately.
I hate the air mattress more than broccoli.
A human being. Yes. Must be. No more protection of the womb.
We burst out my front door like freed inmates, like the guys in Cuckoo’s Nest. We’re both a little fat to be running this much.
Mom shouts us awake. I slip out of bed, twisted and tangled, arms, legs, and sheets. Smoke.
an amazon photos notification starts me scrolling through photos of layla and me on waikiki beach.
I grab his shoulders as he bounds across the porch with his clunky duck walk.