I have unwittingly raised a daughter too much like me: restless, willful, and walled against the fragility of life.
At the end of summer, tiny frogs swarmed on the long sliver of beach by the pond, darkening the sand.
I called my realtor and said, 'Find us another house. Cyrus the cat hates the apartment.'
The first bookstore in my life had two wheels and a nasal voice that called out 'Maga-zine! Maga-zine!'
Fresh off a divorce and my mother's diagnosis with Alzheimer's, I took a part-time job in my local bookstore.
