Teenagers are like cats: sleepy, scruffy, smelly, sometimes hissy—beautiful, cruel— the more affection you crave, the less they allow.

She [was the kind of woman who] moved as if she had expected [the] tragedy, not just reacted to it.

Cross-country courses should be more difficult. Seriously. No more mowed paths through native grasses. Let asthmatics and free-breathers compete fairly.

I hear you say again, “Smile.” “Emily, smile.” “Smile!” “Okay, I know you think you are smiling, but you’re not.”

Love is a Mason and Hamlin– more feminine– walnut, not ebony, rounded yellow strings, tapered keys–than the square-tipped Steinway.

The siren song of my anxiety trills three minutes after you close the door. Will I know, when you’re gone?

The city has dug up the bush that encroached upon the sidewalk that the old woman peed behind last month.

Writing is not hard–spelling, grammar, syntax, commas– not hard. Paying attention is hard. Being fully aware of how many leaves were yesterday green and are today yellow. It’s exhausting. This bearing witness to–for–the world.

I set my machines a-go—lit-bot, Roomba, dishwasher—before I leave to walk the manmade trails among these invasive vines.