Lenore Weiss

I stare at the emergency button in the elevator, red and three times as large as the others, one other person collapsed against the back wall should you wish to call it

I was wearing my gray sweats and a yellow T-shirt protesting the closure of clinics, making a quick dash inside the market, low on eggs and coffee, before a 4pm

The phone keeps going to email. I stay on the line waiting to hear your voice, your message saying you’ll get back to me as soon as you can. I

My first garden grew on the fire escape outside our apartment in the Bronx. Whatever was green usually grew between the cracks of the pavement.  But every spring, my elementary school

Pear trees at the outer edge of the parking lot bloomed in faux-snow, the way they did every year on the California delta. I grabbed a handful of snacks, poked

He’d ignored his doctor’s warnings, the diet, the exercise, everything to ease back from a diagnosis of congestive heart failure.  Not exactly come back, as I understood it, there was no