Me, in a morphine stupor, perched on a bedpan, my left leg immobilized following emergency surgery for a crushed tibia plateau.
In winter, the girl is taught coyote is enemy.
The automatic door slid out of the way.
At sunrise, I watch my father rest both hands on the top of his shovel and stare past the wash.
The girls in my second-grade class asked me what my religion was.
The prompt is “What are your anchors?”
I was far too young to have known it was a period.
I'm logging hours for payroll when a child approaches, her eyes fixated on my hands as she extends her own, palms hidden of course.
On a beautiful fall day, the sirens sang of a coming tornado.
Alone in the house, hormones firing, I prioritize a moment of self pleasure.
Dad’s funeral cortege gave way at the junction when a recycling collection lorry went past.
As I sift through her collection of letters, a pink card catches my eye.
I rush over to my panicked coworker with wadded napkins and apply pressure to her bloody finger.
I get Jaimie to the bathroom before she can vomit all over my new jeans, but she misses anyway—our price for being drunk and seventeen.
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.