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It was the first day of kindergarten. My oldest son and I walked toward the low brick building holding hands and he reached over with his right hand to pull on my wrist, pressing his small hand deeper into the crevasse between my thumb and index...
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(this is what I’m listening to as I type, though we live nowhere near a field) * * * At our old house, the cardinals swooped and soared through the back yard, pausing on a tree or fence before flying through the air again like a...
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He was middle-aged, with a shock of honey-blond hair, dressed in a suit and tie. Crossing the street in front of me, he stood on the far corner, smoking a cigarette, waiting to cross again. Raising the thin tube to his lips, he took a drag, tilting his head as if to...
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(This story was originally posted last summer as part of a longer essay, click HERE to read part 1.) I’m headed to the biggest grocery store in town on the day before the fourth of July. This is only the second time I’ve ever gone shopping alone with all...
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He crosses the sandy shore, walking his slow, sturdy toddler walk and carrying a small, plastic teaspoon filled with sand. Shirtless, still wearing his pajama shorts, he focuses with a force of determination that causes his hand to...
