I think of my daughter, with two passports and a mother who will be eighty when she is forty. I have essentially created the potential for her to experience the same predicament I’m currently living in—a mother to worry about, the possibility of living an ocean away and holding guilt and grief. (nonfiction)
I am attached to a headset by a red wire. Like a dog to a tree, I can reach only as far as the cord allows. When a call comes, I answer: 988 lifeline this is … and speak aloud my alias. (nonfiction)
Tim hopped out of his parked diesel Jetta, his naturally orange hair prominent against the brisk, late January day. He said, “Stay here for a second, Stever. I’ve got something for us.” (nonfiction)
After a long hospitalization, my father returns home to die on January 2025’s coldest day—the Thursday after Orthodox Christmas. The packed snow on the steep, gravel driveway leading to his house is a slick, icy sheet… (nonfiction/Ukraine)
By reflex I turned to leave, but in the center of the open doorway stood the silhouette of a second man, holding a pitchfork across his waist as if to block my path.
(nonfiction)
I trip on cobblestones sticking out of the earth like busted tombstones.
(nonfiction)
