My mother was from the sea, raised by the Pacific Ocean that laps at both China and the United States.
In winter, the mountain stone weta crawls into crevices, into cracks in the stone and it squats there, waiting.
Helen woke to a room grown smaller than before.
She begins in the pond at the edge of Tom Hatcher’s cornfield, where the stalks drag needy fingers across a summer moon.
The crows spoke with the voices of dead children.
Spring festival, before the fish arrive: Teresa Teng croons from the radio; I hum along as I hang paper decorations, the reds and golds bright against our cream-colored walls.
After winter, spring in Antarctica is almost pleasant, most days just barely below freezing.
“Daddy,” says the little beast. “Come look at me in the mirror.”
Do watch eight-year-old Esme as she comes across a small house made of sticks in her backyard.
Karla unwrapped the big plastic fly and set it in the center of the board, like the Fly Swatter game box instructed.