Creative Nonfiction
Newly Published!
Distillations (The Missouri Review)
She is the oldest person I have ever met. She is tiny and looks frail, although she seems rather steady on her feet. She has Mardi Gras beads wrapped around her walker and a no-nonsense zipped canvas pouch attached to the back. She calls it her “purse.” She doesn’t exactly wink when she tells me this; it’s more of a facial twinkle.
Recent Essays
Writing Prompt: Create a believable narrative weaving together the following elements: Harvard, CeeLo Green, the history of psychology, and towers in the woods that may or may not resemble phalluses.
Admittedly, our first trip as a couple, just several months in, could have been to an easier place. One with consistent food, predictable accommodations, just a single monetary system to navigate. A place without a U.S. trade embargo, where American credit cards are accepted.
She carved an X into her forehead. She really did. She did it to identify with Charles Manson and his “family” members. I saw it when it was still fresh. I think her name was Brenda.
Still fresh: Red and meaty-looking; slightly bulging; capable of causing alarm.
Quitclaim (Hippocampus Magazine; themed issue on "Loss")
"Now here come the parties to petition for divorce." Well, to be precise, now here comes just one of the parties, to be known herein as Anne. And despite said divorce having been granted years ago, and at the risk of hearing nothing is ever enough for her, she is never quite satisfied, now here comes Anne to petition for a new word.
I taunt her by saying I will write, then publish, an essay that begins, “If one is to truly experience Christopher Street and Greenwich Village, one must approach from the west, from as close to the Hudson River as possible.” She shoots me a look that I know well ...
Saturday night. I look down at the crayon in my hand and think that in just a few weeks, I may be telling my husband I’m moving out. It all depends on what a relocating colleague decides to do with her tiny condo which she showed me yesterday after a farewell Indian lunch.
Earlier Publications
This is usually the way it happens. I recognize the tree first by the smell, and then use my vision to confirm that I’m right. I am never wrong. This act is second nature to me, in my long-term memory, my unconscious. Wave a flowering branch under my nose while I sleep, and the tree will make its way into my dreams.
My mother handed me the dusty, sticky box. It was especially sticky at the edges where its covering was peeling off, 1970s-era contact paper, brown-and-white gingham. The box held my childhood postcard collection ...
I didn’t like the way she sounded on the phone – the shortness of breath, her report that oxygen tanks had been delivered, the discouraged words.She didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, and my sister, who was visiting and had brought dinner, confirmed that.
Buscando (Prick of the Spindle)
We arranged to meet on the Mass Ave Bridge.The last time we’d seen each other – in fact, the last time we’d had contact of any kind – we had walked along the Charles River, so I’d suggested the bridge in an email. Dead center, I’d written, liking the drama of it. Facing the sea, he’d clarified, making sure we’d end up on the same side of the street.
and ... Some Writing About Food
I'm not a food writer, by any means. But sometimes food takes center stage in my writing. Here are some examples.
Slow Steady Streams (in The Sextant)
Somebody Else's One-Pot Spaghetti (in Cooking the Past)