Fiction

It would be difficult to write about anything else, even though the other day when I pushed the pram to the front garden, five military helicopters flew over my head . . .

When I complained to my mother that Ganga yelled at me and treated my sister and me differently from my brother, my mother would say, “Let her be. She’s had a very unfortunate life…”

“I’m not clear whose story this is . . .”

Would she remember that birds once sang to us every morning, or would this become legend, a memory from some long-ago time when magical flying creatures sang as the sun came up?

I wanted to watch a thing fall because of something I did.

Life as a single mom could be hard, but … there are always hugs.

I am going to forget this, the most exquisite moments of my life.

Mama, alone is …

“What if I can’t do this?” she’d said, finally giving voice to a fear that had crept in sometime during her second trimester.

She’s unsure what to do next, where the growing up and getting ready prelude to her life will lead.

I present my open palm, full of miniature marvels. I’m attempting to force him into a better mood. Trying to will him into the perfect Ken […] in the dream house of our own making.