It was thirty minutes, or it was twenty minutes when he emerged. He came out holding his hands at his sides, contracting and then releasing them.

“You always use that as a crutch. You, a sixteen year old girl. The way you were…” She looked at me, shaking her head, looking at my body as if remembering some wrong, some thing that should not have been.

A pale face was illuminated by the street light. A voice rasped, “Charlie?” “Do I know you?” “It's Bill.” The side of his little brother's thin face

You don't really love me, you love yourself. That's okay, but please, do me the one biggest favor you could ever do me.

Having been speechless earlier by Terry’s news, I was now blindsided by my father’s appearance. He looked absolutely ragged—pale and unshaven, the skin on his face wilted like a rotten plum, fleshy and discolored in spots. Gray streaks around his

It wasn't until I discovered Dad's cardboard spaceship—hidden and dusty, tucked away in our attic—that I realized he had secrets. Big secrets.

There's this sepia-toned photograph, which my mother gave me, of my brother and me when we were still both youngsters. In the picture my brother's dressed in a skimpy checked suit whose sleeves were already too short for him — on its way to becoming my

The closest I've been to Ireland is Conwy castle on the coast of Wales. It was summer, mid-way through college. I was naive and dreamy then. I wandered historic and literary monuments throughout England and weighed my future options.