One way to measure the passage of time is to count the number of days since you last had sex. I’ve lost count. I only know it’s been more than three years for me and my husband—at least with each other. I know this because
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With the sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising, quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; loosely the world shook itself down to sleep, darkly here without a light to it,
Harrison Candelaria Fletcher is the author of Descanso for My Father (2012), Presentimiento (2016), and Finding Querencia: Essays from In Between (2022). His work has appeared widely in such venues as New
you like guns. once your stepfather shot off his own finger with a gun. the newspapers called it a domestic dispute. your mother laughs about it. your mother has a tattoo of
Stepping through the back door, I squint against the shadows before sliding into the corner booth of the bar section. The restaurant’s near empty, the way I like it. Every few weeks,
I live a quiet life now. By “quiet,” I mean, in part, uneventful—depending on one’s definition of “event.” My husband says, “I never needed ‘exciting.’ I don’t need to get away from
Having a car in the city is shameless if you really think about it. I would even go as far as to say it makes you a sinvergüenza, as my mother would
In December 2014, I had just completed my first semester of a creative writing MFA in Boston and was home for the holiday break. Mileage may vary for those in MFAs—and elsewhere,
I see a photograph of a human heart entirely drained of blood, its surface translucent. The aortic valve and pericardium membrane encapsulating the heart are a pale, pinkish beige just shy of
You tried to color my hair at the kitchen sink the night we moved in together: a big man wielding a little brush with surprising delicacy, applying blond dye in practiced streaks.
Chaco Canyon yesterday, impulse after reading the Childs stuff. Many years of wanting to go. I thought it took 5 hours or more but driving a little hard it was only 3.5.