She took out her mixing bowl and spoons. Found the right size baking pan and then lined up all the ingredients.
Errands with Mom ended with her new hairdo, and we went to Burger Chef, a rare treat.
I clutch the radio, twisting the antenna rapidly back and forth, back and forth.
She's in the hospital when my son draws on the kitchen floor in permanent marker, a sprawling battlefield of stick figures with swords.
Assume competence, they drill into parents, but that is always easier said than done.
“More grounds came out than beans went in,” he yawns as if everyone performs groggy pre-dawn miracles.
I live behind a graveyard.
When twelve, I spent two weeks of summer in Mexico with botanists—a grad student, Dad, maternal grandparents—a collecting trip of mosses, with an earthworm dissertation sideline.
I was staring at a dwindling campfire.
The sun was relentless and we were restless.
“I have to pee,” I said.
My apartment is full. Crudité and cheese platters clutter the coffee table, all available chairs sag with grief.
If I could, I’d ask you what it meant.
I have to go, but . . . . A fire, it could happen.
The binds of anxiety taut across my chest.
Before the shots were fired, I screamed.
Yesterday morning in our kitchen, my husband pushed his coffee aside.
Margaret Thatcher’s grip on the nation was coming to an end, or so claimed the editorial piece I was reading.
You held my hand all week, sober, through the streets of Lahaina, the sun burning my shoulders and my neck where my hair is short from when I shaved it last fall.
I stand burning my hands in the bathroom sink of the property management office where I’m employed.