Time is relative, so Einstein told us. I am sure he was right—I’m not really qualified to contradict one of the world’s greatest scientists—but motherhood has taught me that distance is relative, too.
His legs ached as he cleared each oversized stair, the taste of acid burning the back of his throat. Slowly he climbed the face of the foothill known locally as The Incline.
The willowy figure is first spotted alongside the trail, a few feet ahead of her in the scraggy woodland. She counts the number of steps she will take to position herself behind him for optimal throat-cutting proximity.
I told William to meet me in the alley between Fifth and Sixth, on the east side of Pershing Square. Pershing in those days was where LA began its slump towards the homeless camps of the dried-up river.
At just the tender age of three you joined a century-long conversation about the shortcomings of women’s fashion.
“”BAM, BAM!” The report from his handgun caused folks to drop to the floor and scurry away like cockroaches seeking cover.”
Last week was the third consecutive book of the week with which school sent my son home to practice reading and the family it’s about is black.
“Here’s a supercluster of 100,000 galaxies.”