Hurricane Penelope by Timothy Boudreau
Her thoughts are like squalls of wind and water: concerned co-workers, ex-husband, grownup kids worried she’s drinking too much but too busy to come check on her.
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I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
Her thoughts are like squalls of wind and water: concerned co-workers, ex-husband, grownup kids worried she’s drinking too much but too busy to come check on her.
Do it, Zoey, Mikey said. Swim like a torpedo. I dare ya.
While scouring the map, he’d mutter in Yiddish, the language of dead Jews, the mother tongue of guttural mourning.
"Surrounded by crushing oppression, I watched the shimmering sunlight reflect from John Michael’s golden hair."
His thick arms and delicate fingers were made for tasks like these.