Nonfiction

I’ve been noticing rocks everywhere I go—small or large, boulders or pebbles. My friend Thor began rock tumbling as a hobby while bored during the pandemic. He and his wife, Sara, moved temporarily into a small duplex while their dream house was being built on a bluff overlooking the Salish Sea, and polishing these rocks…

There is nothing particularly remarkable about a man my age having two artificial knees, except that everything about it is rather remarkable. Let’s start with the idea that a surgeon can take an electric saw, excavate the knee joint and portions of the adjacent femur and tibia, swap in a man-made hinge, re-wrap the existing…

When I left the house this morning, there was a ruckus in the grass, a rustling buzz, something digging under leaves. As I got closer and the buzzing intensified, I saw a cicada, pinned by a yellow and black, hard-shelled wasp. The cicada fought and shuddered and stilled. Then tried again to right itself. The…

I. I’m born at the end of the world. That is, geographically, in a small harbor town in southern California where the continent climaxes in a blaze of coastline, beyond it lying only the mirage-like remains of anarchipelago, the great gray curvature of the planet, and the sun whereit sets. My grandmother lives there too…

We had a garage sale yesterday to let some stuff go. It was like an Independence Day sale, or that’s what we called it, cuz my brothers said people buy more things for holidays. I put out my metal roller skates and old blue pogo stick and Big Wheel. It felt sad to give up…

We watch them watch us, a family of four, a tribe “in the world” but not “of it.” Our clothes are shirts-tucked-in-to-the-real-waistline and modest-the-dress and the hat-cannot-be-backwards. We shuffle and do not know how to stand when our parents ask for the grocery manager. Can you turn off the music while we shop? At the checkout counter,…

Vivian is still alive when it happens, sitting alone in Chicago on a far northside park bench overlooking Lake Michigan, as the storage war hipsters start selling her photographs. I have not seen pictures of her sitting there, but imagine a faded blousy dress, the scratched bench, the spray of waves against the broken revetment…

Education got us into this. – Murray Sinclair I will go to the archives. What will I look for? Another place, simply, where the past speaks? I call Linda Johnson, former Territorial Archivist of Yukon. I tell her I am going to the archives. What should I do there? What should I look at; what should…

I find in this wilderness a being who only wears pants, has always only worn pants. Lucky Brand jeans for dates, Levi’s for swagger, Carhartts for work. A self who carries a pocket knife everywhere because I never know when it might be necessary to open the straight-edged locking blade sheathed in the polished, blond…