stories

I stood on a familiar street corner during this morning’s rush hour as the crosswalk signals flipped green

I was twelve and you were fourteen. A mop of dirty blond hair grazed the tops of your hazel-green eyes, your black rectangle glasses resting sideways on your nose.

Once upon a time there lived a little girl named Rita who played the violin like a rockstar. She played like a rockstar because she practiced three hours each day ever since she

Today I watched you place stargazer lilies under my tree, that delicate birch which you transplanted from our backyard to my favorite skipping stone spot at Little Bear Pond to honor me a

The 10th anniversary of Amy’s death begins the same way as every anniversary before it: with me dragging myself out of bed, half an hour behind schedule, frowning at the ashen sky