He was forty-five
Gilot
How could a person have and do all these stupid things--clip coupons and double lock the front door--and then one day just cease to exist?
Fiction will always be my greatest love, with poetry close behind.
But when you envision the perfect flowers and the perfect food and the perfect outdoor space and the perfect weather, you forget that you can't rent the perfect family to go along with it. You're stuc...
The things she worried about on a daily basis included but were not limited to: Children starving in Africa. Chemicals in her daughter’s food and drinking water. Corruption in Washington, everywhere y...
She and Gerald rarely argued, and when they did, she quickly nipped it in the bud, silently reciting an Ogden Nash poem entitled A Word to Husbands, though she thought it applied to just as well to wi...
But then you were alone, your body trying to heal itself while your mind went numb. There was a mix of joy and the purest love, couples with real boredom and occasional rage. It got easier as the kids...
April's just a Dixie cup of crazy. Lydia's more like a twenty-gallon tank
I exist in two places, here and where you are. —MARGARET ATWOOD,
Beyond those was a stretch of sand and miles of dark blue sea. You couldn't make out a thing on the other side. As a little girl, Maggie believed that the world dropped off out there, that if you swam...
Well, Chrissy, I'm afraid your grandmother's Irish Alzheimer's has gotten quite advanced - she's forgotten everything but her grudges.
She didn't have a single friend on earth to see her off. She had outlived them all.
Motherhood was a physical act as much as an emotional one. It took every part of you.
Men made mistakes and when they asked forgiveness, women forgave. It happened every day.
It was amazing that you did not become your grief entirely, and walk about leaking it everywhere.
All over the planet women were being tormented, yet if you took sexism seriously, you were a bore, an idiot, or a pain in the ass.
I read as much poetry as time allows and circumstance dictates: No heartache can pass without a little Dorothy Parker, no thunderstorm without W. H. Auden, no sleepless night without W. B. Yeats.
I’m afraid your grandmother’s Irish Alzheimer’s has gotten quite advanced—she’s forgotten everything but her grudges.
It seemed to Alice that everyone these days was out for themselves. The sort of families she and Daniel had grown up in and tried to carry on no longer existed, not really. Her mother had had eight ch...