August of 1999  When Jim Gradferd died, everyone in the bloodline had rushed to the chapel, even those who weren’t speaking to him during his lifespan.  Mammilyn Gradferd, the feeble widow of Jim Gradferd, had taken a seat in the back row of the church, staring at her husband’s solemn portrait that was displayed on the left side of the casket. His black tie looked more faint and his limpid eyes looked more cloudy under the gleam of the pristine chandeliers.  The Pastor

Shape shifter  This would be the first time I’m saying that every opposing side knows their rights and has their lefts stashed in courage. Just like people at the end of the war will see six out of nine, it’s the same way no one can convince the others that it is not nine they are seeing. I’m writing from the middle of disagreements, understanding that I can never be in the shoes of anyone or point fingers at their shortcomings.  In class, I argued for the people who upheld

It was just three quick days after his death that our father’s cremation appointment had us driving across town. He rode in the trunk. His body was all wrapped up in linen, just his shoes sticking out one end because they were so hard to contain. He died suddenly. “Something wrong with his guts,” they said in a diagnosis five days ago. His illness took over in a week, and soon enough he was more illness than anything else. It started with intense sweating that gave way to de

On a Summer Night in 2018  “Nicks, can I have another one?”  “I don’t know, little one,” Nickole “Nicks” James, the babysitter, replied. “It’s getting late and your parents won’t be too happy if you end up with another sweet tooth.”  The innocent blue eyes suddenly became sheepish. “You know about that?” “Let’s put it this way,” She returned to the living room and sat back on the couch, folding her arms across her chest languidly. “I know about a lot of things I’d prefe

All my herbs and vegetables have sprouted, now, with the exception of the peppers.  I am only numb or else in a state of parasympathetic shutdown. Remembering  four summers ago, the distance between West and Jefferson just over three miles. I cried. I stumbled down the sidewalk, begging for love to answer on speed dial. Remembering last summer on a friend’s bathroom floor. I cried. I called on repeat, pressed a blue marble in the palm of your hand and begged: please don’t for

Drifting, midwater. Jellies look alien, like something from Plan B from Outer Space.

I had expected a shockwave of oohs and aahs to move through the lecture hall at the sight of my childhood picture. Yet the students seem indifferent.

The 4 a.m. train rattles your windowsill and sends the little ceramic flower pot crashing to the floor. It’s alright, it was precariously balanced, and ugly, and nothing ever grew in it, not that you were growing anything in the first place.