He had always been honest, generous to a fault, burdened by guilt and bound by duty. But now it was as if he’d surrendered to a different kind of dementia—one that felt oddly botanical.

The Ash Father

I learned the differences in her cries: hungry, wet, startled. I learned to swaddle with one hand. I learned that milk could let down from nothing more than her sigh.

When the Room Turned

What kind of woman am I? Forgive me —
I love walking into the mouths of things.

A Confession