Nonfiction
Sometimes I think I should call my mother less often because she’s going to die. She’s neither well nor unwell, but statistically speaking, I’m not wrong to worry.
Kajol lines swept under an angled eye in a singular motion: inherited muscle memory. Deep inhales stop working for childbirth and fear. Pain sneaks in.
The fractures, herniation, and slippages somehow become tolerable, managed through an elaborate system of forgetting and excusing and stores of fortitude that might otherwise be dedicated to breaking that which breaks us.
I grew up believing that I belonged to a family of birds. When your family…
I must admit, I was incredibly selfish before I had my daughter. As many—too many…
Pyrocumulus clouds rise above fires that burn with special intensity. The clouds are multi-colored—shades of…
I remember every moment of my mother’s fury—rare, but terrifying—when she felt that her children…
The unmasked lead their gaggles of unmasked children into Target. They walk out pushing red…
There’s a certain smell I associate with fall, a crispness that carries melancholy. These fleeting…