When It’s Inappropriate, Laugh
My mom was a vivacious person. She had bright blue eyes that matched her personality, a roar of a laugh that could make an entire theater laugh in response, and compassion that spread to every person with whom she came in contact. She was only fifty-one when she died, but she lived a life full of love and laughter, sharing it with those she worked with.
The Heartbeat of the Earth
At approximately 2:00 p.m. on June 18, 2023, I learned of something that I thought was certain to change the world forever. It began like any other paradigm shift in recent memory. I learned about it the same way I learned about COVID-19, January 6th, Russia invading Ukraine, etc.—the same way anyone learns about any breaking news nowadays—by refreshing my newsfeed
Christmas Eve, 1999
Thursday nights are always a little tense, but especially now, less than a week before Christmas. We are on edge; the clots of snow in the road, the family time, none of it helps. We meet in a classroom in the community center at 8pm. The rest of the building is dark, yawning shadows cast over our faces. It smells like paint and gym ball plastic.
I’ve Stayed in the Front Yard
My father never drank except at Christmastime, I’ve
never seen a brown bottle drain until I was seven, stayed
at my grandmother’s house and knew the skank smell of alcohol, in
winter where cigarette smoke looks ghostly, the
ash tray a black patch of night, he sat on the steps in front
