By day, I'm a cooking teacher, foster parent, cog in the nonprofit machine, and poet. By night, I'm a creature of the internet. My soul is that of a grumpy cat who'd rather be sleeping.
Don't Call Her Bea
It's almost lunchtime. You've been working from home for several hours. You're almost halfway through yesterday's to-do list, and you deserve a break. Definitely. It's okay to take a little longer lunch than usual, right?
Tortall, and Other Lands
So many fantasy worlds are clean and beautiful. Whether they explain the mechanisms that keep them so pristine (house-elves, Bilbo's charming "bathing song") or not (who cleans the blood off the floors after a Red Wedding?) there's a lot of time spent on stunning vistas and immaculate surroundings.
My grandmother says she dreams in English now: fifth language, a final grandchild that will never leave her arms. Our Scrabble games are a meditation, a rosary of worn wooden tiles;
The Corner of Lakeshore Drive and Sunset Avenue
in childhood, where the war is never won, where the windows, their pulley cords long snapped fall like an execution on chipping frames,
Sepharad's Daughter, Wandering
You slipped me family keys — a jangling ring of names and stories over teacups, the polishing cloth, your photo albums stacked in the closet. You
The Cancer Phones
I pick up the call. On the other end, someone is crying too hard to get the words out. I say, “This is the Cancer Information Service. How can I help you today?”
Randall comes home by bus. The Greyhound takes him to the edge and barely stops to drop him off. He hitches a ride to the center of town, where school is just getting out. Ellis is still driving after all these years, and when he offers her his finest Army salute, she pulls the yellow bus over and welcomes him aboard, just as she did on his first day of first grade and the last day of eighth. The kids on the bus look at his uniform and his duffel, and without knowing what else to do, he asks:
Cyrus worked up enough wet in his mouth to spit in the snow at John Engel's feet. Having to move his scarf out of the way to do it robbed the gesture of its dignity, but the good lord hadn't yet offered him the power to set a man on fire just by hating him.