I’m eight years old, wearing my first eyeglasses, filled with dread.
I’m eight years old, wearing my first eyeglasses, filled with dread.
Paati paused her TV show, indicating to me that she needed the bathroom.
We had driven 1,200 miles.
“Do you need anything from the store?” I say loudly into the phone.
The day after I find my father dead in his apartment, I ask my family to share memories of him during dinner.
I accidentally dropped my father's ashtray.
At ten, I yearn to begin my grown-up life.
Everyone talks about the troubles; they tell me they can tell which side you’re on just by looking.
I ask my daughter how she likes her burgers.
Shivering from bloodloss and fasting, she lies on white sheets—the monster, razor-tongued, cold-eyed, who darkened my childhood, who binds me still.
My mother gazes across the kitchen table toward my father’s empty chair.
At seventeen, I had not yet bloomed, had barely been kissed.
It’s just after 11 and already over a hundred degrees and this lady is kneeling by the iguana on this hotass parking lot ...
After walking through tulip-filled Windmill Island, this tired-looking family is about to leave when the older woman in the group stops ...
I bounce the tennis ball, one, two, three times.
When my daughter totters to me for the first time, I’m delighted. But at the Butterfly House, I realise she can walk away too.
Four years since I've seen my sister in person, and four months since I've seen my mom—or anyone—without a mask.
It is hot enough that the smallest of baby hairs stick to your neck, but the breeze picks up and the beer is cold.
My left eyelid convulses, writhes, jitters like a rabbit’s twitching nose as it hops towards lettuce.
My OB was out, so her sub answered my midnight call.