Why I Fight My memories of my dad are like snapshots from a polaroid laid out on the table. Some of the images are crisp and clear; so tangible that I can almost feel the moment they capture, and some are slightly blurry, making them feel just a bit out of reach. My...

The Ending A young girl sits cross-legged in the corner of the couch, shrinking into herself as if trying to disappear completely. She studies the loopy pattern of the carpet, torn between keeping her heart intact or looking at her father for what may be the last...

My Mother's Eyes As we go through life we get labeled by everyone we meet, it’s done out of love, hate, or ignorance. Even nature sometimes labels us abnormal. We can choose to play into those labels or we can prove them wrong. I choose to label myself.  On August 15,...

Internal Monologue of Writing a Eulogy A dusty old photo album holds the picture of me wearing a backpack and a nervous smile standing under the big maple tree in our front yard, on my first day of kindergarten. A sense of dread fills my stomach every time I look at...

Every day After A dusty old photo album holds the picture of me wearing a backpack and a nervous smile standing under the big maple tree in our front yard, on my first day of kindergarten. A sense of dread fills my stomach every time I look at that picture, just as it...