10 Minutes

“I’ll do 10 minutes of writing every day,” I promised. Except I haven’t. And I know why. My ghosts wait for me in my notebook. My writing revisits the past. Takes it apart, re-assembles. Tilts it–left, right, up, down–to reveal previously ignored angles. It digs in the scraps of my …

2008

Nine years ago, I died. Twenty-four years old. In a university office. With a nice job title. Six packets of off-brand Asprin on my desk. A montage of my favorite Facebook photos on loop in my head and guesses on which one they’d use on my funeral program. Frank Sinatra’s …