Articles

I am borne of a landscape of freckles. My mother, her father, his mother: the Williams and Shepherds, the English and Welsh. The bounty of peach farms, peace roses and quiet spirituality.

I’m holding your drawing. It’s more of a map, really, a magic-marker rendering of your family’s redesign. Embellished stick figures rise...

They say that life has a way of giving you exactly what you need when you least expect it. That when one life ends, another is born.

There are days, sometimes weeks, when you don’t even think about it. Then, one day, in front of the bathroom mirror, you face the glaring reminders. Three scars.

“Wake up! Michael’s stopped breathing. We gotta go.” The voice seems familiar, perhaps a childhood playmate’s. I cling to sleep...

After the first of my many cousins died from cancer, the extended family started getting together every August to picnic in Westchester County, New York.

Last night we stood outside and all around us the owls were calling to each other. It felt like a perfect circle and we were standing in the middle.

My mother had great legs. She passed them on; Nora has them now. Her shoes were small and wide, like her feet—European feet. She had so many shoes.

Let's talk about breasts. We’re all woman here. They are a part of us, sometimes, however briefly, perfect. We women tend to think that ours are too large, too small, too droopy...