My grandpa and I sat in his rowboat on a blistering hot summer day with cane poles in the water.
My grandpa and I sat in his rowboat on a blistering hot summer day with cane poles in the water.
Six flimsy boxes, ten McNuggets each, and hot fries?
In the vending machine’s glare, I weighed my options.
I watched holes bloom on the target, nowhere near where I aimed.
This time, someone emails to subpoena records of my supposed coworker.
The phone rings once before her slender fingers cradle the receiver.
“It’s time.” I know exactly what Dad means and jump up, abandoning my dolls.
I am nineteen and newly arrived in Manhattan to become a writer.
My mother’s eyes open as I enter the room with Dunkin’ coffee, a blueberry cake donut, and two daisies.
At the theme park, the skies broke open.
The therapist holds back tears as I describe the summer my anorexia started.
I arrive at the café’s toilet door exactly at the same moment as the lady who had smiled at me earlier.
Ignoring shouts, I scroll his profile for conversation starters.
We’re free, free, free, with overgrown feathered bangs, hand-me-down tees on matchstick frames, sucking down raspberry Slurpees on steaming sidewalks . . .
what i actually am is foster-turned-adoptive parent.
The babies sit aligned in rows.
Saturday, September 7, 1968, 8:55, five minutes to my blind date.
When my first husband was bed-bound and nearing his last days, I made him a sweetened buttermilk cream dessert.
We sat on the balcony, my parents and I.
We had all become such fast friends.