I remember kids’ delight in the graphic novel section, the way they stacked book after book in their arms. But I also remember parents’ reactions when their kids reached that shelf.
I run down the dune to be closer to the water and it feels like I’m flying. I don’t think about climbing back up.
it’s curious, the way we’re all tinted.
There’s something about the spotless sky and sixty-degree temperature that makes me wonder if God is personally sending an answer to our house like a speedy Prime delivery.
Somewhere between coats two and three you realize that four gallons and the anticipated three coats will not be nearly enough to snuff out the old colors.
Pursuing a dream in English-speaking Europe is the vanilla ice cream with sprinkles of international travel for a North American.
But the truth is I’ll follow you like the yellow brick road.
Only a very few of my friends and family members hate women or God, no matter what Rush Limbaugh and The Nation insist.
What you see is what you get—the time is the color; the color is the time.
As I deconstruct my singular image of God, I am celebrating the multifaceted images of God as a black woman all around me.