I remember when my mother called for me from outside. I was seven years old. I remember her voice had a high pitched strain that I had only recently begun…
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In the first day of the New Year, a rare chill took hold of the desert, shivering cacti sucked into themselves, gunmetal sky swollen with rain. I spent the day horizontal,…
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The written word has a way of reintroducing me to myself – of locating me in my hiding spot, of throwing back the covers. Does it do the same for…