I do know that slowly, my own heart healed as patients and families invited me into the special intimacy of illness.
Dreamers Creative Writing is dedicated to writing that is from the heart.
The roots of a dysfunctional family are deeper than unhealthy thinking; they are steel wire cords.
You were special, hard... but so are gems. You were a shard of glass embedded under my skin.
A decade and two years of prairie farming. His hands touching her limp silhouette; Laid in the comfort of her bed.
The girl laughed at her mother, a bigger laugh than was necessary and took another brownie. She was high.
Bodies - One by One - which flail out the Rivers like Salmon, already caught by haunting Men.
Only an expanding heart . . . one that under-stands Those who ignore their history are doomed to repeat it.
Poor Dad was completely booked. So, I took it upon myself to become a professional, certified rock hunter...
And yet, now, as I stood with him I found myself clawing for words, searching for something to say...
There’s always going to be ‘just too much’, if you can’t divorce yourself from your damn job.
I have a support group made up of parents who have lost a child to suicide. We all want to know WHY...
The numbing aftershocks as four farm families buried sons in closed caskets, automobile rubble robbing her last chance...
The bus, like all buses in Hyderabad, smells like lemons… and people. Landlocked and sweltering, Hyderabadians have developed an affinity for citrus.
I was ten years old when I concluded my grandfather was illiterate. I approached him with one of my books one day...
You stand at edge of the hole that your mother dug for herself — not for you — but still. You peer down, at the stairs planted into the dirt wall...
