We all have them, those unmet needs or wishes from our own childhood, the painful bits that creep in and affect how we parent.
On the heels of my diagnosis, I feel there is no way to construct a narrative around what’s happening to me—a deep betrayal for a writer.
Will my intestines turn the sacred bread into holy shit, or does the miracle not extend that far into the digestive process?
I wish I’d known Molly years ago. I wish I had known her when I was twelve years old, wondering who in my life would still love me if they knew my secret.
I wanted her language, her understanding of Honduras, a family like hers. I wanted things she could never give me.
On space debris and a father's remains.
In the battered barbershop chair, Faris sits slightly camouflaged and crumpled, as though he is a mystery even to himself.
Aging is a funny thing. You’re not sure if the world has changed, or if a hundred cellular mutations have changed your place in it.
This folder contained memories I did not have, information about a family I did not know.
Being disabled means hundreds of thousands of people believe they always know better than you do.
Maybe, over time, the ephemera of Jack’s life will become less explosive, like a landmine whose triggering mechanism has eroded, rendering it harmless.
My heart’s deepest desire was to see my mother again, yes, but also to glimpse a portrait of normalcy that I had never known in the years of her illness.