Sometimes, when my eyes fall to the kitchen table or the foot of the bed or the shelf above my desk, it feels like everything’s a few clicks away from chaos. I tell myself I’m making piles for later, stacking the still-to-be-dones so they’re more visible, and inspire action, etc…

In her kitchen, Gloria pours us each a cup of coffee, asks if I want anything in mine. Cream, sugar — the usual. I resist the urge to pretend I am reuniting with my grandmother, in the same way I tell myself the hummingbird sipping at the feeder is probably…

The pause at the edge of the water at sunrise, before the birds lift off. An open door when the rain stops, its loamy perfume in the air. The wagging finger of a list but instead, lemon cake in the oven, a rebellious citrus heat circulating. Cafe neighbors, sugared by…

from Liz’s friend in Arizona. They’re the size of softballs from 8th grade gym class that year I kept missing on my swing, a little too early or late I could never tell. I’d focus and aim and aim and focus and then I’d hear a thwump in the catcher’s…

you draw to your shoulders as the dentist reaches for the drill. Let a small, giddy flush erupt at the sight of the long line for the teller. Feel the sugary wash of joy when you miss the exit or forget to add baking soda or when you spill coffee…

In the mornings, I pretend to find solutions for things beyond my control, twirling the alphabet like a roulette wheel until certain words tumble out, and I pretend they’re tea leaves or optimistic prophecies slipped inside an after-dinner sugar cookie, and I pretend that in just a few hours, someone…