The lights were on in her upstairs bedroom of her mothers house on Converse Drive, the one she shared with her husband, Kim. The glow from her tape deck/CD combo was dim and moody, with Michael Stipe’s voice crying “This is my world, and I am the world leader pretend”…

I poured her a Diet Coke as the sun went down in the living room, already dusk at 6:00, the last of the light light filtering through the open window way it does when summer winds down to a close and the air becomes crisp and cool. And the sense of mystery is…

September, 1982 September, 1982 Brad’s room was dark and cozy, like a cave, with its stained cherry walls that sloped like an attic. It served as a respite away from the hostile eyes of high school with its heavy air of deprecating disdain. Brad’s room was an escape from the everyday pains…

The heat of the summer always reminded her of her dad. He would always appear as the temperatures warmed, and by the time the leaves began to change, he was gone. He came over that day in June, and hugged her as he wept on her shoulder. The day was…