Category: Creative Nonfiction

We exchange our stories. We tell each other what works well and what works less well. We make suggestions. We, like Sherlock himself, are sleuths. We look at the world. We see it for what it is. We explain it to others. Write what you know, they say. To know you have to experience. And there is so much to experience here in London.

I keep my hands to myself. It makes things easier. I pull my elbows in tight, cross my arms over my body, and take up as little space as I can. Everything I need, I carry with my own limbs, and I don’t have to worry about overstepping bounds if I never step outside of my own personal bubble.

Every September, my husband Dan watches the US Open.  Broadcast live from Flushing Meadows, Queens, where I have roots, it takes place on the former grounds of the 1964-65 New York World's Fair.  I've never latched onto tennis, but I'll often watch for a few minutes, waiting for the inevitable shot of the Unisphere so I can make my annual comment, “I saw that with my family at the World's Fair.”

The house we lived in was a remodeled barn. It felt more like a barn than a home. We were the animals.

After missing my connection in Dallas, I am told by Greyhound staff that sleeping in the station is not permitted. So, I book a room at a motel that is relatively close to the station and reasonably priced. Half hour later, my Lyft driver pulls into the parking lot of the motel, looks into the rearview mirror.

Young lady, you really want me to drop you off here?