My husband is shrinking. He seems to get smaller each day and we both pretend not to notice, for to notice would be to draw attention to the fact that he may grow too small to make love to me, then I will be forced to carry him like a child.
Mama is always inviting the neighbor over from across the street. He’s young, maybe younger than her, we think. But we don’t really know.
Grandma was whole once, not a shrivelled brown skull on a stand doubling up as a paper towel holder.
Five hours ago, we put the car in reverse and rolled gently backward to watch the deer. A doe and two fawns, slender-necked and alert, unfazed when our toddler called, Hi Bambi, hi!
Grace O’Leary of Appalachian air knits a blanket for her wife. The wife, upon its completion, runs her fingers over it, calluses catching on rough wool. “Your grandmother made this,” she says.
Leia has loathed seagulls since the last time she went to the beach with her dad.
We emptied an old bankers box and put our parents inside. First his, then mine. They shook their fists, but they were no bigger than salt and pepper shakers, so, really, what could they do?
One: my grandmother was a Russian countess. She smoked gold-tipped cigarettes that jabbed from her mouth like blackened twigs.
Daddy spent the winter planning our move to Australia, a place so far away it was already tomorrow.
I may be your mother, but there’s nothing wrong with me enjoying the company of another woman’s daughter.