The first years of my life were exhausting.
I never cared for hockey.
I was quickly regressing from professional to petulant teenager.
From the never-ending, dry landscape rose twenty trees in my field of vision.
I left Los Angeles early in the afternoon of a cloudy Thursday after surfing the morning in Santa Monica.
Before I start typing, on this crisp Corona-filled April morning, I need to draw some warmth into my hands.
I’ve loved eggs since before I even knew how to say, “over easy, please.”
The early weeks of June had been hot like those stray days of summer when a body takes to the shade to sweat after a morning of gardening.
Rummaging through an old Bally shoebox yesterday, in search of a family photo for my 5-year-old daughter’s “Family Tree” school project, I unwittingly fell upon a vivid picture of my maternal grandmother.
Left by my mother on our kitchen counter was the invitation for Rachel’s annual Halloween party, a tradition carried out for the past several years.