Tag: Writing


I am weary of my worn out sentences that begin with “I” – those crutches I lean on while the voice of an old writing instructor lets slip from the corner of her mouth, a grimace – her clear indication of disappointment, and perhaps this … Continue reading Rock-Making


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