Jorge pulled open the oven. The aroma made his mouth water and his appetite was so immense he almost forgot to put on mitts to remove the pan. He placed the pot roast on the dinner table and effortlessly cut six even portions. Jorge shoveled the tender meat into his mouth. He smacked as he ate and made little um sounds. He paused, fork in hand, and stared across the table. “What’s the matter? You not hungry?” Mina sat upright at the table smiling back. “No, not right now” she replied. “ Very well then” said Jorge as he pulled her plate over next to him and scrapped off the remaining slab of pot roast. After dinner Mina and Jorge took to the couch to watch an old episode of the Andy Griffith show. Jorge removed his shoes and socks and propped his swollen, cracked feet up on an ottoman. His hands rested on his perceptible paunch. When Jorge laughed out loud at the TV Mina would follow suit and giggle with him...
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.