8th Floor of the Wilma. Our windows frame Caras Park–the carousel–a smidgen of the river and Bitterroots. Candied cottonwood resin drifts into our studio. (I once smelled these buds on the Kim Williams Trail with a man I should have never known.) The western valley … Continue reading One Morning in Missoula
Sometimes I do not know my face. I see a woman mistaken for an abuela on the Stockton to Sacramento Greyhound. Or, my mother if she never dyed her hair. Maybe I am the sepia photo of my great grandmother when she was a … Continue reading Unknowing
If I were to say my parent’s stellar success as physicians did not affect me, I’d be lying. No, they didn’t pressure me to have their ambitions. The consistent message was to be the person God created me to be. The problem is, what if … Continue reading Mis~tak~ing
If my childhood were a mosaic, I would name one piece Blue Jay because that is the sound I heard from within an air-conditioned museum of a house. The sound pierced silence, reminding me of the stillness my world was made out of during the … Continue reading A Case for Blue Jays
I may be late to the FOMO narrative – you know, Fear Of Missing Out. In truth, it’s taken me years to sort out what this means. There are things one would expect: attending a favorite rock concert, tasting the perfect pulled pork sandwich, climbing … Continue reading In This Skin
Art House America gave a home to my essay about tanning hides and divorce.
During the Eucharist, my thoughts wandered to 9/11, the widows and widowers, the families, lovers, and friends, and what this liturgical season may mean for them. I realized that my closest friends are a hodgepodge of atheists and agnostics. Our friendship has never hinged on my … Continue reading Easter Rap