A boy is waiting in a station wagon for his mother who ran into a nearby shop. The boy feels the street is somehow off key relative to the music of the rest of the city. Within the stirrings of newspapers and plastic bags, a cough of exhaust from a passing bus unveils a vague shape of a woman among the pandemonium of torn magazines, Styrofoam cups, McDonald burger wrappers, and various other urban droppings. She is shaped by the debris of her city. She organizes and reorganizing various discarded plastic bottles and aluminum soda cans with genteel precision of a collector of fine crystal. She abruptly stops and takes out a shinny gold tube of blood-red lipstick and frantically circle and re-circle her worn lips; rebelliously crossing their chafed boundaries. She huddles closer to the wall of The First National Bank building as all the people hurry past her. Wrapping her cast-off, button-less coat tighter around her body, she scoots across the flattened cardboard box servi...
I write to remember, to question, and to connect. Here you’ll find essays, stories, and fragments of life — all the ways I try to make sense of the world, one sentence at a time.