Non-Fiction

Tucked into the soft cushions of the couch, I look out through the branches of the Christmas tree at the front lawn.

Writing is dangerous. It’s a broken bone mended wrong. A healing scab you pick until it bleeds. It opens wounds and forgets how to close them. Instead, leaves it gaping.

My outdoorsy boyfriend lived for the feeling of shoving his feet into one-size- too-small rock climber shoes and dangling off the sides of cliffs.

Already 5’9” at twelve years old, I never knew where my hands were until I bumped into a doorway or where my feet were until I tripped over…

Whenever my siblings mention the frying pan incident, I laugh along with them, even though I find it tragic and and far from funny.

A Spiny Orb Weaver spider has taken up residence in the potted plants next to my back door. It is an odd looking creature…

“Aargh, these weeds. And I was just here,” Shifrah Fogel Bernstein thought, as she got to her knees to yank out the invaders, the botanical equivalents…

I am sitting on an exercise bike, slowly moving my feet, circling, circling, pushing just enough to barely move the pedals. It is exhausting.

“Teacher. Nurse. Secretary. Three acceptable careers for a young woman when my mother was a girl. I became a high-powered corporate lawyer.”