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Mothersexpand_moreAs I lit the samovar, she stepped through the door with that reserved gaze and whispering voice of hers. The Kabul of my childhood. The Kabul of affectionate gestures, of wise, soft-spoken street vendors. She ended the conversation in her usual discerning way, smoothing the blanket across my chest.
We need to stop talking about it, we need to put some pants on.
The Others came in the light of day and splayed Father open.
Design a way to kill those rats, and do it now, Fiori, do it now.
She had yellow cat eyes that she insisted were also blond.
Louise watched from the shadow. She was looking for somewhere to land.
We’re stuck floating around on the surface of our lives like kids in a pool.
Best-selling author Melanie Gideon reads from her novel Wife 22.
The light is like a benediction. My husband reaches for my hand.
The nights she and Wade have sex she can’t do so without feeling guilty.
At the core, a daughter is a self-reckoning emptiness.
“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.
Her cheek was like a plum about to burst and you had to close your eyes.
As a child I wanted to behold the elusive squid, the patience of eels.
She was painting a bedroom, trying to be a good mother, wife, Catholic.
Dr. Zee knows his son is struggling up out of some chemical fog.
