by Jacqueline Doyle Rock Staar I remember what I was wearing that night: a tight, short, sleeveless white dress embroidered with blue and yellow flowers. Espadrilles, smudged with sand. Gold filigree hoop earrings that he’d bought me in an expensive jewelry store that afternoon. I had a rare tan. The candle on the restaurant table flickered as we gazed into one another’s eyes. His smile lit tiny fires all over my body. It was my last night after a year abroad in Europe. I was

by Jacqueline Doyle National Cancer Institute I won’t lie, I’m worried about this operation coming up, but my gallstones are near about killing me. My sister Letitia says I’m worrying too much, but then she’s always been all about me, me, me. Like the time she ran over me with her tricycle and fell over and shrieked and blubbered, “Momma, am I gonna have a scar on my knee?” And as usual Momma was rocking and soothing her, not worrying about whether Letitia had broke any of my