Essays, nonfiction, and short fiction.
Letter to my Son
Son,
Your due date passed in silence. I packed your clothes into two trash bags, the beginning of what would’ve been your first year, and placed them on the halfway point on the stairs. Carefully curated onesies, sweatpants, and sweaters combined with clothes and toys your sister has outgrown. Two weeks later I drove them to Goodwill.
For Paul
I don't know where to begin.
The quiet hatred I carry for my fiancé is liquid cement permeating my stomach and intestines, hardening and softening, as he gently smiles and asks me how I'm feeling. My pregnancy was a source of passive aggressive fat jokes, culminating in him telling me I was chubby while he hasn't lost an ounce of the 60lbs he said he would two years ago.