Inside the ovaries of my husband’s grandmother, Sylvie, resided an egg the size of a grain of sand that would have been Hannah, my brilliant and accomplished mother-in-law.

Mum died in the last days of October, leaving—among other things—a lot of fall-time chores incomplete.

Whatever the color, there had been a balloon. There had been a boy. And there had been a fall.

My first girlfriend was Catholic, and thought no one would know she was a lesbian if she kept up a great manicure.

We’re lying in the middle of a cracked country road, fireflies blinking a message we’re too human to understand.

She would be devastated if something happened to him—a car accident, for example, it’s entirely possible.

If Pastor Dale’s deer-stand was built as a place from which to squeeze a hair trigger, it also ladled up a grand view of the valley below, thick with hickory, sycamore, and elm.