looking down at pilot on the bare linoleum, my husband said we should place him back on the blanket.
looking down at pilot on the bare linoleum, my husband said we should place him back on the blanket.
“Don’t you dare walk in empty-handed,” my mother yells to me from the kitchen.
It was Saturday at the indoor farmers market and I was half awake as I stood in line for pickles. “Where are you from?” the vendor asked.
I arrive in rubber boots to help Rich and Nancy process their flock.
The irony is, I am not a judgmental person, and yet here we are, you (cowed) and I (robed), you telling me about how a night out celebrating your birthday turned terrible . . .
Vacation adrenaline still coursing through my veins, I tackle the mountains of laundry.
The nurse croons encouragement as the anesthesiologist mumbles, “It will sting.”
As I step off the airplane, tropical heat wallops me like a bag of bananas to the face.
I am three years old, standing on my twin bed, gazing at the wall.
Snow swirls along the icy black asphalt. I jarringly skid left . . .
His head rested on top of mine as his arms enveloped me. “I just get scared sometimes,” he said.
Dad, as always, noticed first. Giant paw prints in snow behind a granite boulder.
Now I’m buckling down.” I press Send before I can soften the text with lies.
I’d heard that Europeans went topless at the beach and tried it solo the summer of my twenty-second year.
Something between a thud and a crack. Almost soundless, yet not.
We spark the menthol loosie, purchased for a quarter.
I didn't cry when I folded Dad’s clothes into Bags For Life (irony not lost).
“Are you ready?” asks the minister. I look up at my father, expecting him to lead the way down the aisle.
On a Sunday, I watch orange permeate the sky while my 18-month-old rhythmically caps, uncaps a pen, draws, and repeats.
Canada Day and the street is full of people, full of red and white and sun and music.