He is older, stronger, and straddles me, holding my arms spread wide.
He is older, stronger, and straddles me, holding my arms spread wide.
When my father passed, I wanted someone to keep me company.
In a room that smells a mix of joy, grief, and cafeteria pancakes, your birth mother makes her offering.
“Drink with me.” He lifted the glass of Guinness to my lips, holding it there like a holy chalice.
Speeding away from the campground to the nearest hospital, I'm riding on my mother’s lap ...
Dude greets me as his Brother in Christ.
The resident refuses to keep his shirt on but can’t take it off himself.
Let’s go on vacation, Opa muses, eyes closed.
There’s some guy jaywalking, holding out his hand like STOP to oncoming traffic.
4.7 seconds remain. Tied score. Villanova shoots.
I don't immediately notice that joy has made my heart its abode.
The teen shelter I was living in was closing.
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.