My favorite chair upholstery worn so thin it always felt like the cool side of the pillow My mother, sick of its old-world pattern, it’s lumpy seat cushion scrimped and saved for over a year to replace it only to have her four-year-old sob at its loss “Where will it go?” I wailed inconsolable I…

No better way to spend the day A book in my basket, sun on my back Riding a bike along the bay Even on days when clouds are gray Ocean waves, snow-white sand No better way to spend the day Up with the sun and on my way Pedaling round the ponds and shops Riding…

On Galley Street, I stood on Great Granny’s back porch, the Appalachian mountains peering over my shoulder as I watched the North Fork of the KY roil and churn brown waters foaming in their haste to round the bend Debris, Great Granny said, (pronouncing the “s”) floats down the middle when the river’s on the…

private words behind my back cut like knives a sharp attack you were my friend I shared through tears you turned and filled another’s ears what harm is there to spill the tea? it was still hot you scalded me.

Porcelain Elvis posed the problem with his seventy-five dollar price tag, while 5-year-old Will had only seven dollars for souvenirs. Porcelain Elvis, safely behind glass in the gift shop. “He’s not an action figure,” we said. “I won’t leave without him,” Will warned. We begged, “Please don’t throw a fit…” We faced off with our…

On Mother’s Day, when I was six-years-old, I made my mother the loveliest bouquet. Fetching grown-up scissors from the junk drawer next to the fridge, I snuck away to the neighbor’s house while my mother put my baby sister down for a nap. Carefully, oh so carefully, I cut every flower from the neighbor’s flower…

you walk away from the petty conflicts of the civilized where barbed comments masquerade as polite conversation where, even though you worked your way from the outside in, (the way your mother taught you) you still have one unused fork after the last course out back, under the stars, you slip off your stiff shoes…

At the University of Kentucky, in 1988, I enrolled in the Work Study Program to help pay my tuition. I staffed the desk in the journalism reading room, surrounded by newspapers from around the state, the country, the world. “Where are you from?” a co-worker asked. I secretly loved his black-framed glasses and marveled at…