I crossed streets to find a grocery store, all the while imagining myself slipping in front of an oncoming truck. I wiped snow out of my eyes with tears, thinking at least that way my mother would never have to know about the forty days.
… it’s the only place I could find diesel, standing in a sweatshirt when it’s thirty below, standing there without gloves on and pumping the fuel into a red gasoline jug.
I was 26 years old; the same age my father was when he arrived in America in 1969 with seventy-five cents in his pocket. It was my first birthday without him
He is thirty-five, wears Hai Karate aftershave, drives a maroon 1970 El Dorado, and sits too close to me on the piano bench. For the first fifteen minutes of every piano lesson, Vic Giovanni details his sexual exploits, claiming numerous rendezvous with many Hollywood actresses.
When my mom got the cancer, I wanted her to have the best post-death experience ever. She had this thing about being buried alive.
My father, not particularly a natural athlete or a sports fan for that matter, took to bowling. The game seemed to suit him like nothing else did.
The streets in New Hope, Pennsylvania are tree-lined, the restaurants have charm, the engagement rings we finally choose are hand-crafted. But how closely does what I feel match what she sees?
After three weeks of training, a period my classmates and I called Truck U., I had to pass two tests (written and driving) to earn a commercial driver’s license.
Instead of funding my 401K, I invest in concert tickets…. I know it seems absurd to spend money to find a way to escape from it. But I’m doing it anyway.
Heat and flies. Flies landing on my head, my arm, my plate, my food. Flies I have to constantly flick away while I eat.
