The Food Struggle
No one remembers to send okra a Christmas card, and they usually misspell “okra” anyways. Ocra? Akra? Okrah? Occasionally, someone visits her when they go south for spring break.
If That’s What Writers Are, I’m Not One
But so often the story would rise up and out of me, and I couldn’t find it again. And I wouldn’t really try.
Deaconing
I’m stepping into church council. Humility knows no bounds. What can I reciprocate? I grovel, lying prostrate, prone.
Moving Day
A fan. A spatula. Thirty soft-cover books. A pile of dresses. Yarn. A bottle of balsamic vinegar.
Help Is a Four-Letter Word
I scour the wall for any ledges, any possible edge to rest a hand or foot. Nothing. The drop to the next balcony I would guess is eight feet. Not impossible.
Christian History
We danced on moonlight and settled scores by imagining things differently.
Maybe I Should Care More
On Thursday, February 16, production came to a grinding halt at the greenhouse because most of my coworkers took a personal day for the nationwide protest, “A Day Without Immigrants.”
The Unraveling of Truth
The difficult task we’ve all received is—like Vonnegut—seeking the slippery truth buried in muddiness and mess.
Wunderkammer!
Nowhere else in this big wide world of ours can you find a life-size Michael Jackson and Princess Diana made entirely out of marzipan.
Portuguesa (To My Wife)
Fifty seconds of the wind whipping, a few tires screeching, nothing more, nothing more needed. Two days of slipping up the coast, of stinging sand, of white adobe buildings.
