How often does a real connection come along? I do not believe in things like this – soul mates, irrepressible linkages, perhaps even love itself. Even now, I am half convinced that we have imagined our connection from the projections we place upon each other.Read More
‘‘No-no-no! I don-wanna.’’ But she pushes the pieces around with her pointer finger. Silently, she assembles a testament to their daily fight against the wheelchair, her left lobe, and December 5, 2012.Read More
The orange I plucked felt leathery and warm in my hands. I measured its swollen heft and sunk my thumbs into the thick pith, stripping the slippery rind. The fruit itself was small, its flesh desiccant, its cells densely packed pustules that when bitten ruptured and spewed sour nectar in my mouth. I ate the entire orange.Read More
There’s this perception that if you don’t hook up a lot, you’re either not a very sexual person, or you’re repressed--sitting there, innocent and nervous, both unaware and afraid of your body, its inner workings and the incomprehensible magic of your dormant sexuality. It’s a whole other fantastic world, if you’d only let someone take your hand and show you.Read More
Death is gritty, primal. The means by which modern medicine can keep us alive in the very end, when all of our systems ingloriously fall out of step, are not romantic or beautiful or dignified — think respirators, tubes running every which way, morphine drips.
There are two levels of shame that come from making your niece cry. There is the private shame you feel for being a bad uncle, and there is the public shame you feel for making a kid cry in the middle of a party.Read More
My mother used to scratch her shins until they bled. During the drier winters of her youth, they would peel slightly, leaving individual flakes sticking up that she would feel whenever she ran her hands along her legs.Read More