I tell Joel that I’m late and ask him if I should go get a test. I watch as the meaning of what I just said moves across his eyes, darkening them. He tells me to wait a few days. He says he’s not ready to hear the answer.
It won’t happen again for a thousand years, the article said. That was enough for me to set the alarm for fifteen minutes before four on a Saturday, even though Richard and I were warm under the hand-sewn quilt, in a cabin whose walls gave off the aroma of wood smoke.
My therapist told me in one of our first sessions that children internalize the voices of their parents. Our decisions are directly influenced by what Mommy and Daddy told us about ourselves. That’s why I was in therapy in the first place…
At the base of the third waterfall I am shaking, with cold now and with fear because I no longer trust my limbs. I’ve tried once already to climb it, but this waterfall is not just a little steeper than the last one.
The posters in the foyer of the theatre advertise the show as “An Evening With Psychic Medium Tony Stockwell.” My first reaction is to wonder what other kinds of mediums there are, and how interesting an evening it would be if you were watching one who didn’t even pretend to be psychic.
These days, when friends ask how my mother’s doing, I say she’s enjoying her Alzheimer’s. That may sound shocking, but it seems to be the truth.
My mother reads aloud from a book she just purchased, a sort of comedic take on the customs, sayings and mannerisms of Southern women. At least I hope it was a comedic effort.
It was unusual for anyone to shop for a piano on a Friday night, much less expect to have it delivered and tuned that same night, but this was a special occasion. Istvan was getting married over the weekend and he wanted to surprise his bride, Katalin.
Every year my middle school students ask me why I became an English teacher. They appear to respect my colleagues and me; one or two might even admit to considering teaching as a career, but the tone of the question is usually incredulous.
That day in mid-August in the Congo was late in the dry season— the sun a seared-copper disc, a cigarette burn on the sky’s perfect palate of skin. I stepped off the boat at the “port” into the sucking, ankle-deep grey mud. I lost a sandal.
