My dad makes magic with wood. My mom tells magnificent stories in paintings and quilts. Jenifer writes Christmas poems, hosts gingerbread house parties, and keeps our visual memories every year in a calendar. Julie is notoriously crafty and makes politically-relevant dolls, among other things, and kept me warm last night…

the common woman is as common as good bread as common as when you couldn’t go on but did. …

“I am not your sweetie or your cutie.” The response came cold, swift, and fierce. A man I had never met rejected my affections outright. He resented them. Still, I persisted. Some days, social media is worth nothing more than a release of aggression, not unlike boxing gyms or the…

We chatter in bed before falling asleep. As we arrange our arms and legs into a comfortable tangle, we say things into the darkness. Various scraps and crumbs of the day. …

Helen Reddy: Mingo, Iowa, circa 1976 My grandmother died the other day Without remembering how I loved her And danced and cartwheeled To the stories she sang This is for both of us I didn’t know how to love him either We commiserated about it I did the splits on the olive…

“Well, we are here…barely!” Valerie and her troop always arrived late. She made it sound like they had traversed raging rivers and rocky paths in order to get anywhere, though the sun was shining and cool breezes softened the oppressive glare of late Iowa summer. Even with “traffic”, such that…

Humility sells imperfect produce from a roadside stand Peaches and nectarines with thrip marks Pears with a bruise below the eye Apples too small and hard to be considered delicious I almost drove past but was charmed By the carefully crafted handpainted sign My grandfather was a sign painter Though nothing he…

This time last year, I was in Spain riding a horse on a beach. I went to Spain with the express purpose of riding a horse on a beach. To fulfill some ideal of romance, because I had been told that I wasn’t romantic. I wore a white linen shirt…

Fresh figs remind me of the beauty of the seasons. While standing number six in the queue at the grocery store, I mourned long-lost freedoms and the hedonism of impulsive shopping. The physical distancing made number six feel remote, if not exilic. “It’s good for me,” I reasoned. “Because of…