You don’t look like anyone special at all,” I tell him. And I curse him. And I start a club to hate him. And I make a magic spell to get rid of him.

In the tell-me-again times, (…) when my mom and I lived in a little apartment in a little building downtown, I slept in her bed. It was a raft on the ocean, a cloud, a...

The thing I’ve learned is that thinking is not writing.

Toy is talking and this is why I love her. She can go on about herself ceaselessly and like the scratching of a branch against the window at night, the steady insistence of it is...

It’s hard, omigod remember? Being a kid.

And the stories we tell ourselves are not the only stories.

I belong here, I tell Toy. I’m hungry for every city block. Every brick building. Every crowded intersection. Electric. I feel brand new.

I want to go back to the tell-me-again times when I slept in her bed and we were everything together. When I was everything to her. Everything she needed.

I’m far from the world and I see it like a brightly lit ball in the distance. The sky behind it is mostly gray. It starts in silence, but I can see the people. Everyone...

It doesn’t matter what story we’re telling, we’re telling the story of family.