My daughter didn’t go to Alcatraz willingly. She grumbled the whole way, punctuating the morning with sarcasm: “Yay, it’s prison day!” Perhaps she was right — what purpose did it serve to see this horrific chapter of history?
Sometimes I wonder why anyone would want to live anywhere but the South and whether I’ve discovered some secret to life since moving here.
I arrange the clementines on the table next to the store-bought croissants and juice boxes; this has now become a ritual, though not a meditative one.
Thirty-six hours after my client was executed, I drove along the highway in the direction opposite the prison for my wisdom teeth extraction. The throb ballooning at the back of my gums had become a rhythmic, welcome distraction from the grief scratching my throat ragged.
I was eager to run away from a bad divorce and the death of my father and was desperate for a job that would take me away from Nashville.
In 2009, if someone stopped in front of the mirror to take a selfie, I’m fairly certain they would have been laughed out of the place. When did gyms get so sexy?
