How it possible to grow up in 3 different houses, each next door to the other? I cannot know if this is unusual. All I know is, everything I am, because of who she was—began at google.com/maps/place/197Magnolia Ave/San Bernardino. A Mittyesque daydream pops out of
The universe has a billion worlds centered by a holy mountain and ringed with wild oceans of teal— swooshing and crashing with the primordial pull of myriad moons. A trichiliocosm, with clusters of thousands of worlds. “Vibrating and vibrating—shig shig, quaking and quaking—yom yom, the
I. I suppose we should start at the beginning. Well, maybe not the very beginning—there are whole lives, entire worlds, that existed B.C. (before children), and I’m not concerned with those. While in the womb, you receive your mother’s life, not her Life. You get
Grow up in a church. Go to Sunday school at Bulverde United Methodist church in San Antonio, Texas, where you cut out pictures of doves, sing along to “Jesus Loves Me,” and then whine to your parents about how boring your teacher is. At home,
In My Personal History of Boyfriends, John D. is subtitled The Drip. From his boy bob to his tentative spectacles to his Eeyorean countenance, John dripped from crown to sole like a crack in a cistern. Midway through my rather educational I-Can- Save-You-with-My-Love period (roughly
Thirty-two pairs of eyes are fixed on the carnage before them. Bone-white, the mushroom cloud races indiscriminately in all directions, consuming the sea. A red stalk of hellfire supports its fluffy cap and slowly, the white veil parts from the center, revealing a sick and
When you are bulimic in 1985, you lose a lot of jewelry in public restrooms. Rings mostly, bracelets and watches, all carefully removed in bathroom stalls and placed on any available flat surface, like the lid of the trash receptacle for feminine hygiene products or,
1988 Before I had a chance to say hello, my mother’s voice shot through the phone. “You will never guess who called me.” “Who?” “Indovina,” she said in Italian. Guess. I settled the phone between my shoulder and ear and waited. “Non puoi indovinare,” she
Notice how cold your hand is. Under the armpit it goes. Enjoy the warmth. Sigh. Shift to the left against the arm of the chair. Your living room is quiet and you gaze into your book. Those plants in the big bay window are leaning
There were a lot of girls named Patsy in 1954. I remember Fats Domino singing, “And I’m going to get me one.” I wish. Two houses up from ours in the opposite direction from the Dooley’s crematorium lived Jay Furner, his wife Mabel and their