There’s a line, quite invisible but present that demarcates the years before and after parenthood. October 21, 2010, I’m yet to be a father.

It’s Thursday and my creative nonfiction class wants to talk about squirrels...

My elder sister returned from the States with her husband and two kids after spending many years there....

My three sons were at their dad’s down the street, sleeping in their childhood rooms...

I choose India like the options are offered to me by a magician...

There isn’t a sun anymore so I buy us an umbrella and I give the man money and I see my mother and she is yelling, why did you do this to me

This year, both of our babies are going to school, third-grade and kindergarten. We’re up early, packing lunches and such, trying to keep to

I had a diary. I wrote nothing in it that day...

In September of 2010, I was starting my second year of an MFA program at NYU. I’d moved to the city straight after undergrad, determined to

I was able to express myself in a powerful language that was all my own, under the sparkling light of a disco ball.