Creative Nonfiction
What is Still to Be Lost
The waves are large, swelling greens and blues, thundering into white as they race to the shore.
Imprints
I feel my mother here. I am my mother here.
The Fragility of Bees
My youngest son holds the crawling, drenched bee, dragging its wings’ skeletal frames across his palm.
Required Reading
There was shame in the secret. There is deep shame in being unwanted. There is deeper shame in wanting to be chosen again.
Candling
In the dark of the moonless Swiss evening, my friend gently holds the egg and illuminates it from beneath with a flashlight.
Old Teachers Never Die
I stepped out of the grand home that held the remnants of Mum’s last words, her last dream, her last thought, her last breath.