Creative Nonfiction

My nightly glasses of wine soon became empty bottles hidden in my endless quest for oblivion.

Even the best efforts of a helicopter mom could not make our new reality normal.

A mother displaying such self-interest seems quintessentially cold and wiry.

Six yards of soft silk, plain and lustrous, like a ripe mango lit up with sunshine…

My longing for camaraderie gouged its way along my throat and sat heavy in my stomach like that burnt corner of toast.

When she was an infant, I would cup her tiny feet in my hands, close my fingers around them, and make them disappear.

The tiny house has a force field around it, because it must.

It was a routine visit, but my heart was cartwheeling in anticipation of a test I couldn’t study for.

Despite my efforts, Mom’s drinking problem seeped through until I could no longer hide the stain.

What’s my purpose if I can’t teach my daughter the satisfaction of using her hands to create something out of nothing?

Abandoning all pragmatism, we packed up our things, broke the contract on a house we were set to buy elsewhere, and moved to the beach.