The Archivist

The House Evelyn Left Behind When I came home from the cemetery, four people were sitting in my living room as if they had been waiting for my grief to […]

The Gray Sweatshirt My grandmother asked the question from the doorway of my hospital room while I was holding my newborn daughter against my chest, wearing the same faded gray […]

Discipline I pulled into my parents’ driveway outside Denver at 6:42 in the evening, killed the engine, and sat with both hands on the wheel while the house glowed in […]

The Nightlight My granddaughter told me while I was tucking her in. She said it the way children say things that frighten them, quietly, with the covers pulled up to […]

My aunt Sylvia looked across a table full of roast chicken, glazed carrots, and butter rolls and said, “You know, some families count their blessings. Yours counted its children and […]

Say It When You Grow Up Part One: The Courtyard When I was seven years old, I announced to an entire apartment courtyard that I would marry my neighbor. Not […]

The clock at the end of the corridor read six fourteen in the morning when the guards came for Édouard Vanel. He heard them before he saw them: the particular […]

 The coffee was still warm in my hand when my father destroyed thirteen years in four sentences. He did it calmly, which was characteristic of him. Daniel Reyes had built […]

The reunion had been loud since ten in the morning, and by early afternoon it had reached the specific pitch of a gathering where everyone is performing a version of […]

What You Can Hear My parents sold my dying grandmother’s 1892 Steinway for ninety-five thousand dollars and bought my sister a Mercedes. For twenty-four hours, they acted as though that […]