K asks me to take her to the laundromat.
The summer I started to live on my own, I bought a pig. I bought it off the side of the interstate, hours east of the city.
On the Fourth of July, 1999, my younger brother jumped off the kitchen counter and cracked his forehead against a claw-foot stool.
Last I hear from my sister Jorie, the poet is unwell and back in Iowa with his children and ex-wife, on dialysis twenty-four seven.
The first time I had a gun pointed at me I was 14 and I ran home crying, and my brother laughed at me, calling me burra, saying I’d better get used to it. I didn’t know if he meant getting used to seeing guns or getting used to being stupid.
When Colin left the House for the first time after his last treatment cycle, he said he was “going to grab some air.”
By the end of my first month of piano, Miss Harry pretty much pronounced me void of rhythm and close to tone deaf but tried to be tactful in laying out my faults, not wanting to offend my mother.
Lynn Drucker was the sort of woman who had made me reluctant to attend the group in the first place, and now she wanted to be my best friend.
Keep in mind, I was still new in town. I didn’t know people yet. I had no community here, no family. At a time when I needed to be seen, she saw me.
After Mom and Dad split up for the third time, Dad left immediately and Mom spent a record-breaking week in her bathrobe.
They’ve finally done it, found a way to kill us all. This is how my father greets me on the phone this morning. “It’s on Channel 7,” he says.
“We are made of star stuff,” Alex tells me.
Everyone thinks my thirteen-year-old sister can predict the weather.
I stood between the melons in the produce section at Lundardi’s, honeydew and watermelon, thinking about the lost daughters of the world.