My grandmother has Alzheimer’s, so when I wiped off an old vinyl record I’d found in her basement, she couldn’t warn me to burn the motherfucker.
When she opened her eyes, her gaze settled on the objects before her: the springboard, the balance beam, the whiskey bottles. The heat hung heavy. A rill of sweat slid between her breasts. She didn’t see the tiny camera-flash explosions igniting everywhere around her from within the darkness of the stadium.
Angela had been laying on the kitchen floor with her husband pinning down her legs and forcing her jaw open as he emptied the rat poison, made mostly of arsenic, into her mouth.
If you improve 1% a day, then that’s 3800% per year (compounding each day). I want to get a little better at what I love each day.
Should I talk to her? Should I say something? I feel like saying anything would destroy the sanctity of the scene. In my mind, she can be anything I want her to be and that’s the beauty of it all.
I swear I heard my daughter whisper my name. But, the thing is, I’m still pregnant.
If we would’ve had proper cell phone service, I would’ve gotten the optometrist’s warning calls. I would’ve ripped the contacts from my eyes.
The night of the funeral, after dragging some cousins to a bar to have fifteen shots to celebrate the fifteen years of Ryan’s life, a mottled brown owl landed on the tree branch outside of my bedroom window.
Instead of filling his room with CDs or Rangers merch or posters of naked girls, he had shadowboxes stuffed with dead moths swinging from his walls, their wings pinned down with tacks.
I was digging under the bed, searching for pictures of my deceased parents during my last visit to my childhood home before it got sold, when I found it. A diary covered with neon Lisa Frank stickers of unicorns and ice cream cones. A little yellow lock dangled from the edge, securing the pages together, but it was flimsy. I could snap it right open. And I did.