Positive
The moving box still sat open on the floor, its cardboard flaps folded neatly
When my daughter told me to go away, her voice a whip of contempt
I rose early, before the first hint of dawn, and slipped from beneath the
Sunday dinner at my house had once been a ritual of warmth, a symphony
Every night for twenty years, I closed my eyes, believing I was safe within
The rag in my hand felt useless against the stubborn oil stain bleeding into
My dears, my name is Gertrude Miller. I am seventy-eight years old, and today,
On a freezing winter night, cries echoed through the empty streets near an industrial
My mom made us weigh ourselves twice every morning because the first reading might
Betrayal “Say hello to the river, Helen,” Sabrina whispered, her breath icy against my