Today, we were reading Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations in our classics class and in the hallway after I try to apply the teachings . . .
The air is filled with the smell of latex, bleached bedding, and cleaner, but I can still smell my own shampoo.
My mother’s voice cracked into a sob, sharp and trembling. “I take care of four kids, you have no idea—”
Standing alone, center stage in the blinding glare of the theater's spotlight, I wasn't nervous.
My mom feeds Buster, a squirrel she named for his busted ear.
We attempt to cross the thick rope hanging over the water. My choice.
I left the oven on, I laughed. 400 degrees for hours.
Both of us were divorced: she had a terrific daughter and an insane beagle; I carried faded dreams.
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.