If I had to choose one moment that convinced me of my own insignificance, it would be that time I saw the world spin.

“I was just thinking about you,” he emailed, a week later. “I’m rereading The Bell Jar.”

I know god is real because persimmons exist.

They were not in Brooklyn, California, a nice suburb outside D.C.

They were in West Virginia.

Hey, here’s an idea: how about you don’t spend half the period texting your boyfriend, and then he won’t dump you in the middle of class. Ever think of that? Maybe you talk to him like a human being instead of sending him a bunch of fucking sideways sad faces. 

Two years later, I fell in love with a boy whose devotion to The Smiths matched my own.

He paints using the ashes of the towers in his watercolors.

I love you...
I love you, too...

Everyday we took Jelly for a walk on the track.
If Julia was busy teaching, Scott and I took Jelly.
If Scott was busy teaching, Julia and I took Jelly.

My friend Jamie holds out a thistle bloom, her fingers curved gingerly around the prickles. “Eat this,” she says. 

Anthony was my reason for everything ... for South Park, for Tupac, for horror movies, for music that sounded like screaming, for my parents' vodka, my sister’s mascara, for all the girls I put down.

What we really wanted was to be older.  What we really wanted was for something to happen, take us away from Florida and into the rest of our lives, but that doesn't happen for teenagers, not so much, and so we stood and waited.

i mean, i was black before too.

Civil War Day was a staple at Reginald Middle School, implemented somewhere in the shady patriotism of the Reagan era before carrying through as tradition.

The air before me
is the flavor of
an oat cake popsicle.
Or a shoe box. 
Or the water sports
I’m not doing. 
So I sign for
a prescription
while all the world
is water sporting
in

On my last night in Zhenjiang, the three other laowai and I—each of us western foreigners: three upstaters and a guy from Toronto—walk the condominium-lined miles out to the banks of the Yangtze river.

When it began, he was deep in the hole, backhanding a two-hopper toward left field, and he rushed the throw, scooping it up, a cloud of dirt trailing off his glove like a cape as he raised his left

Fifty cents for tickets in the bleachers—then. Fifty cents a railroad car to Pittsburgh.
A “marvel” they’d called it. Three tiers of steel, the façade terracotta, the balls off
the deck, bouncing.

Summers to Harridge, April 20, 1950: I am writing to inform you of the changes in the Washington ball park. It is rather difficult to explain but I will try to give you a picture.

Maybe you

I hated practice, but I loved you.

Well, if you're reading lips, you'll hear some words that are not necessarily used on family TV.

She grips the bat the proper way, the way Dad taught her. Right over left, the knuckles lined up like railroad tracks or piano keys, two of Dad’s many analogies thought up on the fly. Yet another:

Then she cupped my face in her hands just like my father and said, “You’re missing it!”

It’s good, I think, that we forget.

The year everyone was hitting home runs, Barry Bonds made lunch with his arms.

It was a slow curve—a big bender,
spinning against the trajectory
of the ball. It hung