Mary Shelley’s Corridor

Thirteen, on Lincoln Street, I read by forbidden light - a plastic flashlight breathing weakly beneath the blankets, its beam a narrow tunnel through cotton and heat into someone else’s dark.

Tinsel, Time, and Talking Snowmen

When I was small, small as a sock lost behind the dryer, the TV glowed like a fireplace made of snow, and December smelled like popcorn, pine, and the promise of staying up past bedtime.

Lives in Two Voices