“Would you please tell your coffee to stop attacking me,” Cynthia said. “You should have put more creamer in it,” I said. “You don’t have any creamer,” she said. "You act like that’s my fault,” I said. “Did you see that hippo in the paper?” she said. “Kind of hard not to,” I said.  A… Continue reading Coffee


Watching my father come home from work carrying his official looking leather briefcase and wearing the usual corduroy blazer with elbow patches up the driveway to the front door, silent and torn, like someone working for the government who can’t tell their family what they do for most of the hours of their days, I… Continue reading Rope