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Eight years ago my eight-year-old self sat on a plane that was preparing to take its passengers eight hours away from its current location of a perfect eighty degrees Fahrenheit. Sitting on the...
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I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes I had forgotten to...
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“Swinging. Alex is with me. – Gwen” I slide the note, hastily scrawled on a torn piece of notebook paper in my messy nine-year-old printing, under the door where my parents are sleeping....