Dissociation
Squish your toes into the creamy sheepskin rug and marvel at how they disappear—swallowed by softness. Sunlight spills through large sash windows, turning the hairs on your forearms golden and lifting some of the intensity from the daffodil-yellow wallpaper in this unfamiliar space. You’re standing with your back to your …
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Until All the Matches Are Burnt
I am driving to the Grand Canyon on a chilled, moonless night. My headlights catch a small structure on a spit of land fronting a dormant volcano. It is the Chapel of the Holy Dove, an isolated sanctuary amidst a woodland of ponderosa pines. * I wrench the door open, …
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A Catalog of Forgotten Joys
By mid-January of 2021, winter already felt tedious and draining. I wondered if I’d suddenly become a person who hates winter. What had I ever loved about that soggy-socked, dry-aired, and brutal season? But I was still dragging myself out of the house for my daily pandemic walks, begrudgingly pep-talking …
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Ten Griefs, Ten Breaths
1. The nurses liked her; she liked them. She had that elder wisdom smile. Maybe that’s why they did what was forbidden. Or maybe because I cried so hard after they called. “Can I see her?” I’d sobbed. We had promised to be with her. 2. The day …
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A matter of opinion
Look, in a matter of two-three years, it will all be good. May your cooker always whistle, may there be echoes of sweet laughter in your sunny courtyard always, your grandmother put her hand on your head and said. Are you up to breastfeeding again, your husband said. You will …
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Waitressing and the Cosmos
At the restaurant where you waitress, you have to close out your shift by “ten-pointing your tables.” This means refilling your sugar caddy while trying not to be repulsed as you remember that middle-aged woman who hoisted five packets of fake sugar (three pink and two yellow) over her single …
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West End Girl
Summer of 1977 was when I first fell in love. That was also the summer of Son of Sam, the killer who was terrorizing New York City. Lurid headlines blazed from the front page of newspapers, and all my friends in tenth grade were cutting their hair because Son of …
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Texting My Dead Dad
June 3rd, 2017 – Four Months Before Do you know the Netflix Password? Most of our text messages were mundane. “Are you at work right now?” he once asked. “Yes. Off at ten,” I texted back. We were quick with each other. We left it there. I don’t remember now …
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Why I Break Stuff
I break stuff. Chronically. I don’t know why. For several years my wife, Leslie, kept a delicate heirloom teacup made of fragile porcelain on her nightstand. One evening, while getting ready for bedtime, I tossed an extra pillow off the bed. As it left my hands, it brushed the teacup …
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