Author: April Pickle

Love is patient, love is kind, but I am loving and kind only part of the time. Love does not envy, it does not boast, but I saw

I stood at the back end of the 18-wheeler, watching with an ache in my chest as the delivery driver slowly lifted a long box onto a set

In my earliest memory I am frightened by a crow. I am two years old and I am in my backyard on a red tricycle. I hear a

One day, a few years ago, when I was sad, I ran into a stranger, an elderly man. He wasn’t at all afraid to say what needed to

I notice faults in folks, faults that I have forgotten I possessed myself. I am quick to judge, unwilling to forgive, particularly when the sin is a sin

When I was about seven, my daddy told me to stop biting my nails. So I did. But as is often the case with a human trying to

If Mama got to cooking and found herself in want of a cup a flour or a cup of sugar, she would place a measuring cup in my

“Damn dam,” Mom would say every time someone mentioned the Whitney Dam. Mom was my grandmother. Back in the 1950s, the dam had flooded her homeland, an area

When the rug called Ritual and Routine got ripped from underneath my feet, I flew into the air, I fell on my rear, and when I got up,

The shocks on the church bus were so worn that when the wheels went round and round into a pothole, our rumps jumped half a foot into the