I have all my memories stored in jars, lined up in date order. One for each year; their sizes vary depending on how many memories I have for each year. When the girls were young, and Tim was still alive,… Continue Reading
Epiphany: I need lemons. A tumble of lemons, a volcano of fresh explosive citrus, the obese mamas with that extraterrestrial shine, not those dinky rough-hide goblins lurking at the bottom of produce boxes. Fifty will do, I think. No, seventy;… Continue Reading
The Louvre is not Costco but sometimes it is. Entering quickly through the Rue Rivoli Richelieu side entrance using my museum pass instead of buying a ticket was a source of infinite joy that would last me for days. Before… Continue Reading
We zig-zag along a crooked stone bridge towards the tavern. Mist blankets the water, which is riotous with koi, though it’s a clear day elsewhere — a hologrammic projection of the weather from hundreds of years ago. Our daughter, Ruyi,… Continue Reading
Before I became a giraffe I was a twelve-year-old girl. I had long brown hair, brown eyes, and a burgeoning mustache I shaved weekly with a disposable razor I stole from my dad. I was the type of girl my… Continue Reading
Samantha etched the white oak onto her hand and arm: her wrist and forearm the trunk, her fingers the branches, fingertips the leaves, and on her palm the date and our initials. She wrote our first kiss inside her upper… Continue Reading
The cars quietly drifted up and down the cables all night long. Talking to each other. Mumbling. Thinking. Hullo. Hullo. Good evening, Totem, sang the red gondola. It was a low, drone song. Good evening, Ewe, sang the blue gondola.… Continue Reading
Our brief interview involved more cannibalism than I would have guessed. At the river with my kids, on the last day of summer, and my son is picking up rocks along the shore finding snakes and wolf spiders hauling egg… Continue Reading
Butterfly Boy is watching TV in the trailer park house he shares with his ma, Jeannie. His castle is guarded by a moat of cigarette butts and beer bottles. His face is brown like hers, but the bandages covering his… Continue Reading
I was killing time at a dinner party when I first encountered the wooden rabbit. I found myself wandering through Ted and Jerry’s house, wineglass in hand, peering at framed photographs on the wall, inspecting curios on shelves, and reading… Continue Reading