Her Hands

She holds her thumbs inside each fist to hide the scabby nubs.  The moist environment of her hands squeezed tight hosts the spread of the tiny warts that bubble tentatively alongside her nail bed and lower lip.  Her hands always seem to be in need of a wash; dirt and paint hide wherever they can …

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The Great Escape

I tried to run away today. My daughter sat on my bed and watched me pack. She told me it was probably a good idea for me to leave since I seemed so upset. This sort of hurt my feelings, but then she added, “This is how I felt last night, I understand” and I …

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Street Smart

Tidying up after my daughter's sleepover last weekend, I picked the iPad up off the basement floor and as the cover flopped open, the screen woke to the browser history window:  ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE THIS HISTORY? The perpetrator had neglected to hit that final YES and showing alongside the question was …

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1980 – I Don’t Do Parades (Unless I’m In It)

I was eight years old when my family made the move from Louisville, Kentucky to New York for my father's job.  We had moved quite a bit, but this one was traumatic for all of us. Even though White Plains was an upscale suburb, my parents, not sure what the public schools would be like, …

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Jolie Laide

When I was fifteen, I hosted a French exchange student in my home for a week. Dmitri looked just like the drawings of Jean-Claude in my Tricolore text book with his wavy long hair and hawkish nose. I was crushing hard despite his matchy-matchy pastel sweatsuits that looked like baby onesies. Toward the end of …

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