Twenty years ago, one of my community college students wrote an essay about a day so busy that she forgot to pick up her seven-year-old daughter at school.
All tagged daughter
Twenty years ago, one of my community college students wrote an essay about a day so busy that she forgot to pick up her seven-year-old daughter at school.
A stray follows the man who picks plastic from the beach every morning.
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.
I used to look in the mirror and see my father. Now it's my mother who stares back.
I found her at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad.
My seven-year-old and I arrive at our traditional pumpkin patch. She picks out a huge, tall monstrosity.
My 77-year-old mother and I have a system: She texts me an emoji every morning when she wakes to let me know she's alive, and I text one back as a receipt.
“First,” I say, “we need to beat the cream cheese until it's smooth.”
Mom buttoned me into my best pink dress, a ribbon tied in my hair, and sent us off to the restaurant where a famous pianist was booked.
She sees me and freezes. Our eyes lock. Coincidence, not genetics, that they are the same blue.
Man, what a tough crowd.
I’m helping Jessie cook chicken in the wok. It’s cold outside, but warm in here.
Born of fierce independence and intent on passing this on to his children, my father required us to learn from his excellent financial acumen.
“There’s nothing more that we can do here, ma’am,” one of the paramedics said.
I have always been a stickler for meticulous preparation and planning, perhaps dating back to my Boy Scout days or maybe just a product of my OCD.
I watch you paint a childhood picture for your grandchildren, different from the one I remember.
During my three-year-old daughter Daisy’s eight-hour transplant surgery, I imagined lying beside her on the operating table whispering, “Mommy loves you.”
While surfing the web I came across a painting titled Island of Shells. It reminded me of Barbados, my birth island.
Tantrum. We've dealt with her public meltdowns for years.
He says it never happened. The airport, his arms dangling me over the railing.