She wears a shapeless black dress. A shawl patterned with pomegranates covers her head and trails down her sides. She is standing still. For a few moments, I can't tell where she's facing.
Books they can't yet read are open on their laps, as they imitate the adults around them.
I reach a tipping point where the room gets too crowded. People are starting to edge into the aisle and block the exit. I slip by them and out to the sunlight and cool air.
A phone call that fills an hour and more, and makes me feel like I'm soaring.
Leaves suspended in late afternoon light, against windows that have a copper shine.
Where does your responsibility end and another person's responsibility begin? What are the best ways to map these boundaries fraught with guilt and anger?
The red chrysanthemums are the essence of red. They're strawberries and blood and fire engines.