I worry about so many things, ninety percent of which I will not discuss with my son, no matter how articulate and knowledgeable he is.
Your kayak, a hollow yellow crayon, slides past, tickle of eel grass, gentle current, your life in its hull.
“Okay, vote. Who really thinks Bruce Springsteen is working in the back?”
A world of possibilities folded itself up, collapsed, vanished.
It was her first day, and she wasn’t sure she was going to like it.
He’s ruining the house a piece at the time, and I’m not sure what he expects to happen when he’s finished.
She didn’t understand the system. She only knew there was one.
“Look,” I said, yanking the blinds open. “Aliens.”
On weekends we drove to our town’s hidden creases: the parking lot behind the middle school to smoke pot, a house party for a college we didn’t attend.
No one talks about what Nana keeps in the basement.