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I hightailed it out of the hospital like my ex-wife was a prison I’d escaped.

I open the door and Eleanor is leaning against the wall, paper white.

I make a point of smelling the lilac every day that first week in May.

When the doctors’ voices started turning to noise, I didn’t fight it.

I live for now in the second house of having asked a favor from a friend.

This is a novel that contains more than its actuarial share of falls.

Dexter was unconsciously dictated to by his winter dreams.

I stop and look at the sky. Suddenly: orange, red, pink, blue, green, purple.

I was lying with electricity. I was already a story being told.

At the core, a daughter is a self-reckoning emptiness.

The slow-falling leaves contain the space of the story I’m pursuing.

You’re supposed to hit is the bull’s-eye, that black spot, precise spot.

At Pompeii the little dog lay curled and did not rise but slept the deeper.

She was painting a bedroom, trying to be a good mother, wife, Catholic.

give me a fish and I will make a necklace of its sharpest bones

“O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it!”

The joy and anguish of youth, captured in two six-word stories.

It was the way of the world: everybody wanted someone else.

Dr. Zee knows his son is struggling up out of some chemical fog.