I was attempting to extract ketchup from one of those glass bottles. You know the kind, the sadistic ones with the narrow neck that seem designed by someone who had clearly never encountered

Three days ago, I held my great-niece1 for the first time. Six pounds (and change) of pure possibility wrapped in a hospital blanket, her fingers impossibly small and perfect, grasping at air as

I was sitting on the patio of a dive bar1 on a Wednesday afternoon—the kind of Wednesday afternoon only available to the unemployed2 when my phone buzzed with the message: "We&

I was thirty-four, standing in my kitchen at 7 AM, grinding coffee beans while mentally rehearsing talking points for a budget meeting1. The sound of the grinder (a reliable, adult purchase I'

I once spent three months learning to play a single piece on the piano—Bach's Invention No. 1 in C Major.¹ Each morning, I'd sit at the bench with