Non-Fiction

It was unusual for Aaron to call so I always answered the phone when he did. These conversations were cerebral and sometimes hard to follow…

I often take pride in the testimony that I never wore dresses as a kid. But that’s a lie. At age 5 I wore one dress – a single dress and that dress only.

I’m trying to get into our new safe deposit box, but I haven’t brought the key with me. “Can’t you open it with yours?” I ask. She gives me a quizzical look.

As a child, any time I got to spend with Dad amounted to the thumb space at the toe of a tight shoe. Dad was a general handyman in the surrounding neighborhoods…

“Can we pray for my brother?” She asked as I petitioned the class for prayer intentions. “We just found out he is going to be incarcerated…”

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about sunflowers—the kind that kept Van Gogh tethered to his body and that convinced Hannah Gadsby that human connection can shield us…

The room is small, jail-like, with windows high in one wall. The air is humid. Breathing requires deep heavy intakes of energy. The bits of daylight filtering through…

Over the last twelve months of life at the Alvarezes, from fall of ‘65 to fall ‘66, the seasons gained momentum. The autumn equinox passed.

My father left his barbershop to work in construction years before I was born, yet he never stopped cutting hair. If you knew Gennaro well enough to visit his Italian home in the inner city of Cleveland…