I am two years old. Ribbons of leather harness fasten me to the iron grill of our front porch. I watch Scott Worthington, also two, scoop out boat-shaped pieces of orange his mother has pushed into his hands before smacking her hands on her apron and turning to clip...
Sometimes I teeter on the edge of knowing, I mean really knowing, how elusive we are – how fragile and momentary existence in form is. It happened when I leaned in close to my mother as she lay dying. Suddenly death was so simple, so perfectly in tune with...
For many years, I have wondered about the nature of mind and self, identity and personality. My story, What’s Left is about a woman who has a brain aneurysm which floods much of the right side of her brain, leaving her with her capacity for math and logic, but no...
What if? What if this is the moment across which, when I pass, each subsequent moment will be measured, clocked, pointed to as the one that marked the path leading to that final embodied breath? What if? Every moment should be then heightened, exalted somehow....
