I grew up in the desert.
I’ve called a lot of women Mom in my life, but none of them gave birth to me. Continue reading
She would make tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off when she knew we were coming, opening cans of smoked salmon and crab. She must have made another sort of sandwiches because at the time my little sister would eat neither of those things, not even on white bread, which we never had at home, with the crusts cut off. I don’t remember. I do, however, remember her staircase. Continue reading
When I was a small child, I had a wardrobe. It had four narrow drawers down one side, a closet-cabinet-bit on the other, and a broad drawer stretching all the way across the bottom. This is not a story about that wardrobe, which was eventually handed down to my little sister and which I believe my mother now keeps art supplies in, if it survived the purge when my parents built a new home on the site where our old doublewide once moldered. Continue reading
“It’s okay, Mama’ll fix it. Open wide,” I tell my dog, rolling the treat-coated pills in my hands before tucking them against my thumb and nudging them down her throat. Every time, the wad of drugs feels huge. If practice makes perfect, she’s the canine version of Linda Lovelace by now. Continue reading
When I bought my house I had no idea how grass worked. Continue reading