We discover a key in our deceased mother’s dresser drawer, a string tied through the tiny center hole with a tag attached, labeled in cursive: “Who Knows?”
I blurt out the wrong thing to you, again, and see the pain on your face.
In the kitchen, I fixed my glasses with a paper clip, twisting the wire until the hinge held firm.
I steer us onto Plane Tree Drive, navigate round Botanic Park, then pull up near the zoo to let my daughter out.
We exited the metro, passed through the wickets, and headed to the escalator.
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.