November 16, 2018

On my 20th anniversary, last May, I do what I did the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. I try to keep breathing. I inherited my mother’s brown eyes, my father’s broad flat feet and from both of them, poor lungs. Asthma.   I gather my lips around my inhaler, like a scuba diver on dry land, inhaling two puffs of albuterol while I hold in the medicine that makes my world expand again…. Read more

November 1, 2018

My word of the day app keeps opening to the word fenestrated. I look up the definition because while I consider myself well read, fenestrated is a jumble of foreign syllables to me. It says provided with a window or windows. I look out the windows. The dark still awaits the break of dawn and the moon everyone is posting on Instagram is nowhere to be seen. I don’t know why my view is lacking, but it is. There is nothing… Read more

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