I pick up the gold necklace sprawled across the train’s floor like a golden snake. Finders Keepers, but I lost something precious once.
I pick up the gold necklace sprawled across the train’s floor like a golden snake. Finders Keepers, but I lost something precious once.
Exquisite torments merge in morning thoughts before I wake.
I was practically leaping in excitement to show him the oft-sung medieval bridge of Avignon, and we took off at a run.
This year, I am determined to care for them, to not let them get leggy or turn into sun-brittled husks.
With tightly squeezed fists, she extends her arms. One, two, three steps forward.
“A lion, a goat, and a bundle of grass,” said my teacher, her face like a shut gate. “A person has to ferry them across the river in a boat.”
I was late, so when I found myself still sitting, one stop away, I pitied myself. But then a little girl screamed and began crying …
There’s a sneeze guard that separates each tutor and student.
Our family was polenta poor but our dentist, Dr. Fusco, had a father-in-law who was big with White Owl Cigars, one of the Yankees’ sponsors.
The watcher at the OR window signals to our team. We start the Apgar timer and wait.
A howl near my head. I resist waking, my mind reaching for wisps of dreams.
I saw his face when I least expected it, smiling at me from a corner-mounted television in a crowded café in Prague.
At first I thought it must be a trick of the light, some particular wavelength that shimmered and flicked with an orangish sheen across his skin, like tea gone cold in a porcelain cup.
I consider his marshmallow roasting technique: expectant, leaning forward, cautious not to catch his treat aflame as he rolls the stick between his hands like he’s molding spaghetti out of Play-Doh.
I pulled on jeans and a soft sweatshirt and stepped out of the camper into the cool morning. Mist kissed my cheeks, chilled my hands.
Boom. The sound is decidedly not normal on a day with perfect blue skies and the shoes of thousands of marathon runners smacking the pavement.
It was a mistake to ask him how he had been. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so damn polite.
I used to look in the mirror and see my father. Now it's my mother who stares back.
Whoosh! The iridescent flame ascended the sleeve of my navy Nautica sweater quickly, and I realized too late that I had brushed the hot Bunsen burner.
They weren’t Lees with the wave of stitching on the back pocket that the coolest girls wore. But as I checked out my backside in the mirror on my closet door, I didn’t care.