Inch by inch, year upon year we rub each other the wrong way.   Your devastation at my anger, our laser focus on our son.   How you slept in the guest room after your mother died, how my loneliness made me awkward.   We were better looking before we got fat, lost some teeth, grew turkey necks, gray hair.   But like the land mass of the Pacific plate as it dives beneath the North American,   you make me laugh, which can’t be faked, like being caught off-guard.   Your clear sin

Thirteen, three years older than me – also, Shelley’s older brother. At her house, it was Bobby who’d play hockey with me, short sticks, foam ball. We’d shout when we scored.   He taught me road hockey – shooting a tennis ball I’d catch in my baseball glove, or block with a stick.   Bobby’s other sister, Bonnie, complained that he’d stretch the crotch of her jeans when he wore them.   He was first on our street to buy a 10-speed bike – boy’s style, lime green from Canadian Ti

On family road trips my father played Glen Miller and Benny Goodman, big band sounds for hours on our car cassette deck. When it was my turn, I’d play the Eagles, Hotel California,   singing in the backseat about being a new kid in town. I could only play it through once because, as my father said, That’s not music, it’s just noise. My son loves a genre called Riddim. Hours a day composing – samples, builds, drops – he gets lost in it, hands move like pulling taffy, expressio

We hadn’t seen Bobby in over 20 years.   He was more into punching than talking.   After our parents died, I was the only one who stayed in touch.   He always wished me a Happy Birthday.   Teased me when I posted photos on Facebook from a latest trip, Another   Joland Adventure.   I called every year or two, emailed a little, texted more.   He wasn’t needy or hungry.   He was always sober when we talked.   Said I was his only connection to family.   Spoke with pride about his

After we crossed the Canadian border, exported and imported cars, paid taxes, made note of which crossing had nice officers, filled out...

Brown corduroy coat from Simpson-Sears, plastic boots with fake fur zippered ankle to calf, hand-me-down-toque, machine-knit red and blue polyester mittens, still wet from the school week.   Saturday flat light edging between snow and sky, grey horizon beyond the new subdivision. Frozen tractor tracks blanketed in white, bulldozers grid the straight prairie roads.   Along the wooden snow fence, I pant, climbing a cascading drift, high as a tree. A Viking finding my way across

I had to save myself for what remains of my life Facebook is close to connection, but not connection like a shitty lover who keeps...

She’d asked for me.  My mother was in palliative care outside of Toronto after being diagnosed with stage 4 cancer - liver, lungs,...

Midnight, sitting at the kitchen table, the only light in the house, hanging above us. My son, nearly 19, complains about cancel culture, how TikTok and Instagram are judge, jury and executioner!   If you make a mistake and it’s caught on video, millions of people will know and then you’re done. I suggest he turn off the apps. Mom, you’re so old,   you don’t know how life works.   Images shifting at bandsaw speed – shoes, cars, girls, memes of cats, enemy forces – he’s on his

Early morning, The Castro, 1986. I live on a hill, across from California Pacific Medical Center, trees cover gray windowed walls. A...

As we waded in the deep end, my father would pretend to drop me, smiled when I squealed, my small arms gripping his neck. He rowed the...

Two weeks I hardly remember, though I’ve only been home three days. The grocer’s name who made us fresh pico de gallo – holding out...

Walking the path along the Colorado River in Glenwood Canyon, I notice a dark shape on the path ahead, a bird pecking at it, I hope it’s...

Now that our son has left home with his Jordans, his blonde girlfriend, the grey folding couch - after I’ve cleared the basement of...

I did not see my son’s birth, I missed it by 2 hours. He was born in another state, we traveled 8 hours to say hello. He wore a diaper...

Getting sober is like climbing a mountain - a daily choice, one step at a time, over and over - until weeks become months, months, years....

I wanted to be a boy like God or Joe Namath, Batman or John Denver – not like Craig who pushed me facedown and shoved snow in my shirt. I...

She had to attend another Inner Light conference, something about struggling to find paradise. We worked all afternoon to surprise her:...

He said the stage is like a high wire performance. He said actors need to understand the stakes before they climb up there. He said just...

The tiger looks upon my orange boy cat, striped and dirty, and wonders how he landed in such fortune. LET ME ASK YOU, HOW DID YOU GET...