Creative Nonfiction

The Letters

Let’s go in here and talk,” she said, guiding my shoulder toward her bedroom. Granny Bill closed the door and sat on the small stool that fronted her oversized maple dresser. She fidgeted with her hand mirror and comb while I looked around, not knowing whether to sit or stand. I…

Seeing Pink Elephants

Before 2016… It’s usually around seven when I wake up, when the circadian alarm announces it’s time to contend with a horrifying, if somewhat obscene, morning ritual known as the DTs—or, to employ a more gentle euphemism: “seeing pink elephants.” What this means is I go to the bathroom, close…

Silent Song

In Camerota, where the locals dance salsa every night for all of summer in a club called The Cyclops, I step into the butter yellow church in the piazza and find the most sorrowful Madonna I’ve ever seen. She stands on the right side of the altar, her eyes red-rimmed,…