The clothes are from my friend Jennifer’s closet. She called us over because she was ready to clear some space from her ample wardrobe and wanted us, her friends with similar figures, to get first dibs.

Tonight, our first concert is in Prague. We have rehearsed, but now that the performance is drawing near, tensions are high. It’s hot. The performance hall we are in does not seem to be air conditioned. 

Like most pet owners, we subject our poor Baxter to many nicknames. Some are run-of-the-mill like “Puppy” or “Puppy-Schmup.” We call him “Booxie” and “Booxinator.” On days when Baxter is freshly brushed and walks with a certain swagger, I refer to him as “Lord Buxton.” This is always pronounced in an awful English accent for absurd reasons that I can’t explain. I hope you agree with me when I say it is our absolute right as pet owners to be reduced to sappy ridiculousness when it comes to our pets. No explanations required.

Recycled Rhythm got its start in 2018 when its founder, Anthony Maland, wanted a way to share the positive effects of music therapy with other young people. Maland, who was diagnosed with ADHD and Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) at age 5, benefited greatly from his musical training and refused to allow his diagnosis to hold him back.

When I went away to college, I lived in a dorm named after Rev. Niebuhr, who was a pastor, theologian, and ethicist. My father wrote me letters addressed to Niebuhr Hall, and he would tuck a copy of the prayer he had clipped from a church bulletin. On the back, he would write with his customary post script: “You may keep.”

The play is set at a remote guesthouse, where seven strangers are trapped by a snowstorm. When a police sergeant arrives to investigate a murder nearby, suspicion is cast in all directions as the strangers are questioned and reveal their sordid pasts.

I know myself to be an introvert, but I’m always a little bit shocked, on these rare occasions when I’m left alone, at how much of an introvert I am. 

We knew they were coming, but it didn’t make it any less jarring to see the tiny holes in the soil where they had suddenly emerged after their 17-year-long buffet of tender tree roots. They’re not a welcome sight for many, and cautious homeowners along neighborhood streets have carefully wrapped young saplings in white nets as a way of protecting trees in their infancy from the attack of cicadas.

My daughter, tall and slender, stands at the apex of most of the group pictures. She is taller than the other girls, so she tips her head slightly, not out of shyness, but in deference to the height difference. She is as elegant as I’ve ever seen her. The dress she is wearing, she told me, makes her feel beautiful. I can see it, too; the way her shoulders are back, the way her eyes sparkle, the way she delicately lifts her skirt to navigate stairs, revealing her strappy black shoes.

It is wild to me that over a week ago, we picked up two strangers from the airport. Ten days later, tears rolled down my cheeks as I said goodbye as they left for their flights home. I will miss them, my new Italian daughters. My own daughter, with three older brothers, now has sisters she can call her own.

When Dolores Fischer was a junior in high school studying WWII, her U.S. History teacher suggested that his students interview their fathers who were war veterans. Fischer knew that her father flew in the U.S. Army Air Forces during World War II, flying Boeing B-17s, a four-engined heavy bomber aircraft. Beyond that, details were scarce. When she asked him to let her interview him, he seemed uneasy.

I am accustomed to a house filled with voices and noise: laughter, instruments being practiced, “What’s for dinner?” being shouted, or the shower running for far too long. I’m used to hearing footsteps overhead, before they recede across the ceiling the way a shooting star appears in the corner of our eye, then disappear just as suddenly, leaving us to wonder if we only imagined it.

Indeed, Dolly will be back where she belongs on the Drendel Ballroom stage in April, when the Theater Company of Sun City presents their spring musical, Hello, Dolly!

The AP Stylebook is a substantial volume for journalists, students, and writers that, to me at least, deserves its own podium, open to the page about nonessential clauses, marked with a rich leather bookmark, a single light trained on its text. Instead, it stands upright on my desk, crammed beside file folders and various notepads. As an improvised bookend, I prop it up with the mug I use to drink my daily cup of tea — it has “No Drama” emblazoned in gold letters on its side.

As soon as Elon Musk walked into Twitter’s headquarters carrying a sink (the caption to the video read, “Walking into Twitter HQ. Let that sink in,”) it was clear that Musk was more concerned with crafting Dad-jokey quips than he was about making the platform better, or at the very least keeping it clear from hate speech and disinformation.

Even the word “dread” sort of sits in the mouth like a lump of wet clay and falls out with a thud.

Before December is even over, I get excited about hanging out with January. I start making lists well before the turn of the calendar, to be ready when she comes. I plan out all the fun things we’re going to do together: exercise, self-care, healthy eating, budgeting, family time, career goals.

Long after the other plants in our garden faded and settled in for a winter nap, the rosebush on the southeast side of our house continued to grow and stretch toward our bedroom window so that when we awoke and pulled up the shades, the palest pink, delicate petals rested serenely with faces open wide, patiently waiting for us to begin our morning.

The local radio stations barely wait 24 hours after Halloween to switch over to holiday music. It may seem incongruous to drive through streets lined with golden maple trees while hearing “Frosty the Snowman” over the speakers, but here we are. As the ghosts and cobwebs are cleared away, the bells and wreaths and candy canes immediately rush onto the scene to cram every crevice with lights, tinsel, and excess.

Besides the spectacle of war, natural disaster, and crime broadcasted on our screens, tragedy has touched my own community, too. A 17-year-old boy’s life was cut short this week, and the high school where my daughter attends has been reeling from this senseless snuffing out of a beautiful life that was just getting started.

The “vegan” part of the recipe went straight out the window the moment I decided a trip to the grocery store for vegetable stock was out of the question: the beef stock in my cabinet would have to do.

This is precisely why I’ll never embrace veganism. I’m simply too lazy and don’t have the discipline required.