With the Braves On, My Father Washes Me
A week before my twenty-sixth birthday, I lie morphine-cradled in the recovery wing of Pelham Medical Center. I reek of sweat and surgical tape, blood and unsalted hospital beef, my hospital gown sweet with syrup from several spilled fruit cups. It’s Friday, which means I’ve been stagnant in bed for a week. Deciding my stench...
Night Owl
He switched the headlights off and urged her up, into the night air. “Go on. Stand up,” he said, pointing at the Toyota’s open moon roof. The car rolled slowly down a country road, somewhere deep in the valley of quakes. Soon enough she would be too old for this. “Really?” the little girl asked,...
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