The afternoon I was born, my father brought my two older brothers and my sister to the hospital with him, but back then, they wouldn’t let children in to visit. My father and siblings all stood on the grass below my mother’s room and called up to her.

There was a man crying, walking his dog and a woman drove by on a flat tire They brought coffee to the tables in large glasses on white saucers There’d be long silver spoons with which to stir in strong

The young girl has given up, and lies sprawled out upon the yellow cover on the bed, with her blue sarong wrapped loosely around her body. One arm lay back up above her head, where it was thrown during the exertion of birth. Her yellow halo surr

I flew to Madrid. Though, at the time, it felt like standing still. Nothing happened quickly enough the second after I had read that journal entry.

After the daughter leaves, the mother develops a problem with food. There is always too much, or not enough. There is never the right amount of food in the house after the daughter leaves.

I lost my ability to bring the heat. I tried compensating with the logical choices and served up curve balls, screw balls, sliders, sinkers and change ups. I even got tossed out of a game for throwing spitballs. I guess the bulge in my cheek from the gob

She calls me by my name. She says I am her daughter.