We get back together, because of course we do. He is better, now. Therapy helps both of us.

Dan texted his wife before going on the ventilator. She shares most things on Facebook, and she has disclosed this last message, too.

Since my mom died after my second wedding, I don't have anyone to tell me if my mustache is showing.

You held your mouth open but kept crying, the bread going soggy in your palm, your communion taken in vein because of course you were always the body and the blood.

My grandfather drives me up to Sarah Lawrence choking back tears. As soon as he leaves, I cut off my earlocks in the bathroom and change into Outside World clothing.

Tom Selleck, in his best reverse mortgage voice, volunteers to call your parents and break the news that their daughter almost died. Your mom is happy to hear from him since she always liked Magnum P.I.

She arrived at my apartment at 3 a.m. with a soft suitcase on her head, a handle positioned over one eye. I could see the netting in her matted blonde wig. Her broken eyeliner and stained lips

After we finish doing the dinner dishes together, Mario heads into the living room and picks up the remote control.

“Guess what?” he says, turning on the TV. “New Zealand is playing England in

I saw into the face tattooed on his thigh and thought, I am not afraid.

A robot took my uterus. Left my ovaries behind.

When attempting to convince a group of friends to watch the 1995 film Showgirls, I compare it to the more recent Hustlers, but where Hustlers is invested in empowerment, Showgirls is invested in

Aaliyah
Dr. Dolittle Soundtrack 
Track #3

Damn. This was the song—the song we danced to in perfect rhythm with each other. No words—just movement, and it was all in our shoulders. I never saw the

Going to work after you’ve been on an meth bender in a brothel is not a good idea,

Melanie is my yoga instructor. Sometimes she’s pregnant, other times not. Her voice is soothing in a way that would annoy me under other circumstances, like a preschool teacher without a preschool

Sangria at a soup shop. Pieces of peach and apple in the wine. The skin of the fruits unpeeled in my mouth. Sangria even though it was winter, early evening, cold and already dark out. Goblet-sized,

It’s a Tuesday at 3 pm, which means it’s time for my therapist to remind me that I am a victim of a violent crime.

The house on Olean street stands as it once did, a formerly bright white house, the sidings been torn off, revealing dark greenish-black shingles. This house, the black sheep of the neighborhood.

My father locked his children up in a house for years for fear that they would die of pesticides from plants. More than that, we were locked in our rooms with a gate.

There’s a story my father used to tell from his days as an ER resident. An old lady showed up for care, and when he asked her what had brought her in, she calmly raised a hand, showing him her palm. It was pierced straight through with a long darning needle.

Bet you’ve only made lahmajoon from scratch once. Bet you’ve made pierogi dough once. Bet your attempts at grandma’s pilaf recipe are crunchy and undercooked, noodles burnt, stuck to the bottom of the pot.

I approached looking at thirst traps like I did those Magic Eye 3D posters I’d stared at as a kid. If I stared long enough, I believed, I could see something real in those thirst traps.

One day, I end up on the side of the road next to a bobcat who is thrashing after being hit by a car.

Bread has its own history, its own holiness. Flour was pounded from prehistoric plants then roasted on the hot stones of Neanderthal fires. Ancient Egyptians milled grain between giant rocks, dark, mixed flour, imperfect loaves with heady scent.

I -- Book

In every house of our memories, there is a book. In the basement of mine, there is a paperback with pictures of the sea. 

The underwater camera is smeared with the blurriness of

The first six months I took hormones I was frumpy and ridiculous looking. I didn’t know anything about makeup or styling