The Garden of Forking Paths

By fifth grade we recited┬áDylan Thomas with apocalyptic voices, Lewis Carroll and Robert Frost. At the time I didn’t recognize the word diverge, nor any yellow wood. By thirteen I knew a bit more about how to tell apart ghost stories and a tale one shouldn’t believe, a dream one should never find to beContinue reading “The Garden of Forking Paths”

Sketches from Old Beginnings

I. Early morning, mom isn’t here to ask me what I want to wear, or wash my cranky face; my father tying up my pigtails as I sit in the tiny red plastic chair, sleepy, obedient II. The pink and purple tricycle is the centerpiece in our traffic games around the dining table III. PillowContinue reading “Sketches from Old Beginnings”