All joking aside, time travel, like breaking up, is something we do to ourselves. It’s effectual. It’s our fault and only our goddamn fault.
I try to be your daughter. I try to make you my mother.
The morning wind swirled down cool and soft from the mountains, shaking the tops of the short pines on the foothills, stirring the dust at Ignacio’s feet and raising his hopes. He leaned back against the car, black and sleek, borrowed from his brother, and fingered the coins in his pocket.
Harvest day is the most important day of the week.
I am sitting in my mother’s red Bonneville station wagon. Mamá’s hair is still black and long and flows over the back of the seat.
This is your stage manager. If you haven’t already, please sign in. My attention flips between the pages of a nearly failed history midterm and the unopened prompt book, today’s bible. I open the binder, and my fingers glide over the script—sound and lighting cues, lists, drawings, and contact sheets. The booth is dim and … Continue reading Cues
"Sometimes, when your windows are open, I hear you singing."
I decided early on that I was going to write my stories...in my own voice, my own words, with my own sense of humor and my own actual grammar and peculiarities of speech… everything exactly the way I would tell it.
On the drive to the crematorium, I think I make peace with your death.
Sacrifice can be this totally joyful choice that people make, which is something that I've come to terms with more, recently.