I’m standing on a stretch of grass outside the camp’s dining hall during the weekly Wednesday evening cookout. My watermelon-stained hands struggle to free a wipe from its package. My oldest nags at my feet for a third cookie. And dammit, where is my middle son? Just then, my stroller tips over. You help me …
We stood together on the stoop, the boys and I, peering out as the trash truck sunk its merciless teeth into my mother’s 50-year-old desk—the one I had used since college and painted pale yellow and slate blue during senior year. The one that always held my most cherished notebooks. It had only two drawers, …
“Stop at the corner!” I call ahead to my two older boys as they bike the half-mile between our home and “school.” I’m pushing the baby in an umbrella stroller weighed down by at least five bags of blankets, lunch boxes, changes of clothes, sippy cups, and who-knows-what-else like a veritable pack mule. Each of …
Dina L. Relles 