It’s just a field—unwatered but mowed—running ragged into September through August’s scorch. The field mocks the green, manicured lawns bordering it that have been tended by migrant workers on hands…
Author: <span>Beth Hendrickson</span>
It’s the third day of school, and my ten-year-old daughter is in tears. She missed the school bus despite being ready and waiting. She had appeared in the kitchen an…
My mantra is two words on a fading yellow notecard. Truth: I’ve lost the card. Or, Truth: I’ve lost the motivation to go look for the card. I’m pretty sure…
The book pages have turned beige, and I don’t remember them starting off beige. They’ve gone beige the way re-run TV shows from the 90s have gone grainy and the…
Heights bother me, not claustrophobia. What would I do—I question my interior self—wedged in a dark space, say in a cave, beneath the earth, confined, constricted, and suffocated by stone?…
He had the lesson time wrong. 4:30. He arrived earlier. He remembered his violin. He remembered his music. He waited in the hallway, and a girl scooted in before him,…