That this desire, this guilt-sway of your hips, was put in its proper place among the centuries, the galaxies, among all those who have ever died. Strikingly alive.
Each week falling like a plodding foot, though we’d have sworn there were more than 52 in that burgeoning deck. We tried shoring up the months, yet still they’d bleed into each other:
He shut his eyes a moment, mulling over a rational explanation in case he had to tell his brother why he had never gone to see him or called him in so many stinking years.
My act is slipping. My “professionalism,” as they call it. Honestly, that’s just it: an act. Medical schools work hard to prepare you for the great art of customer service that medicine really is.
The rocks would live on, layers of sand and water gradually inching their way toward the sky long after we had passed through and left this earth for good.
As I dipped my coffee mug into a plastic bin of rainwater, the boys corralled the littles into three groups and divvied up the apples, slicing them thin and drizzling salad dressing over each slice.
My mother lived in fear of being found, she had to learn a new language and culture; she sacrificed seeing her children grow to give them a better future, but she wasn’t chased and persecuted like a criminal.
Still, hidden beneath the surface is an angry subcurrent who believes that Narnia’s mystical past will return, that it’s in the blood, that the true spirit of that enchanted land will one day rise again and stomp out the interlopers.
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