Before I start typing, on this crisp Corona-filled April morning, I need to draw some warmth into my hands.
I watched her fall the first time.
The sight of my late father sitting at the water’s edge filled me with dread.
The soccer ball bounced on the clay field and rose into the air, fragments of yellow-red earth booming and dispersing before dissolving under the fading orange light projected by a cheerless bulb.
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.
It had been a favourite topic of discussion at dinner parties throughout the years.
The last time I struck a match, I lit the sky on fire. Up, up, up galloped the pillows of smoke, stacked on top of each other like scorched marshmallows.