The cherried curtains tickled her back, blown in by the breeze through the open kitchen window. She sat at the Formica table, her thighs stuck to the vinyl chair cushion, eating bologna, which she didn’t like, on bread covered with Miracle Whip, a tang that bit her tongue. The kitchen smelled like gas because of the […]Read more "Grandma’s House"
My grandma would have been 88 on St. Patrick’s Day. She passed the summer before last, just before I moved to Portland. I’d said goodbye to her while she was still in the hospital, waiting to go home where my mom and hospice nurses her would tend to her for her final month. The last time […]Read more "The Noble Saint"