Sprocks·Oct 30Being the Age Your Parents Were When You Remember ThemI turned thirty-nine last spring, and somewhere around the third week of being that specific age, I did the arithmetic that apparently…
Sprocks·Oct 26The Playground at Dusk, When You're Thirty-FiveCutting through the park at dusk last week, I passed the playground — empty, gates pushed to, the swings hanging dead straight in the…
Sprocks·Sep 23The Dead Phone I Keep in a Drawer and Never ChargeIn a drawer in my bedroom there is a phone that has been dead for three years, and I keep it dead on purpose, and the reason is the whole…
Sprocks·Sep 21The Last Person Who Calls Me by My Childhood NicknameTwice a year, an envelope arrives addressed to a person who, by any official reckoning, has not existed for thirty years. The handwriting…
Sprocks·Sep 18The Specific Loneliness of Good News With No One to CallI got some good news on an ordinary Tuesday — the kind that isn’t big enough for an announcement but is exactly big enough to want to tell…
