Yogi tea is a nightly wander through honey-coated flowers, eucalyptus forests and lavender fields.

I wish every room were a beautiful room but some are quite ugly; medical waiting rooms come to mind.

My mother lies dying in a hospital bed, again.

My dentist prescribed a fluoride toothpaste; it’s a flat, matte mint, and I miss the spark of Crest.

Climb into a winter bed layered in this order—sheet, heated blanket, weighted blanket—and tell me you’re not exactly where you belong.

Thanksgiving week is the best week.

The word “jacket” takes me back to childhood: metal zippers, synthetic lining, cuffs stretched thin with wear.

Some people really can do it all.

The yellow stoplight is a stunning wash of golden-amber glow.

I hate to admit it, but a front flip into the end zone to score a touchdown is kind of cool.