Even before I’d touched my newborn, the surgeon asked, “Are you planning to have more children?”
Even before I’d touched my newborn, the surgeon asked, “Are you planning to have more children?”
“Oooowww!” The small, hard projectile punches my thigh with bruising force.
I wanted to stop by the funeral, see off Uncle Paul.
I was walking in the park looking for the next good photo.
This morning, the warmth of tea drifted through the kitchen, soft as dawn.
“All ladies like getting flowers,” she had told him, as if explaining the world to him.
The house is cold, always.
I was riding the bus home when I heard students talking about math.
We sat down at a Nakseongdae restaurant, mixing soju with beer.
It’s 6:30 p.m. Dinnertime is 7, but tabby Bert struts around the room . . .
Today I’m ready to purge my closet.
We watched the bouncing headlights as they crawled across the frozen arctic landscape.
Shaking on the stone slab she has been ordered to sit on, her eyes catch mine.
I remember, for my first 18 years, I couldn’t fathom kissing.
A shiver wakes me up.
"People with POTS don't run," says the cardiologist as she reviews the data from my running watch.
In high school, I dated a girl I didn’t really like because she was pretty.
Backyard, trampoline, large heavy raindrops drip down my face, I spit them off to breathe.
The sky is green and roaring like a freight train, almost louder than the siren, as a patter of hail pummels the siding.
More than four years ago my puppy arrived, a baby so small it could fit in my little hands.