The explosive force beneath New York City's steam clouds

Things to say instead of "Please don't die."

Reconsidering our responsibilities to the dead . . . and to ourselves

The fragile tenacity of house moths and other creatures

Micro-essays of fleeting joys, wistful memories, and passing sadnesses from the past two years

1. My ragamuffin family walked the fairway at the Oceana County Fair, wild among the bright booths. This circus rainbow was staffed by sweaty men—Dad called them “carnies”—all calling out like preachers, urging us to shoot ducks, toss rings on bottles, throw darts at targets, capture the softest bear in the world.

Tonight, as I walked my dog on a quiet path, nobody around except for a couple of lone men, the sky rushed too quickly with the last pink dust of the day, and I thought suddenly about S.

Men come here like they own the place. Roll up the road, bump over the apron, and tear through the gravel, leaving dirt tracks. I hear them before I see them.

Mrs. Simon said I was brilliant. No one had ever said that to me before. She said, One day, you will be a writer. Mrs. Simon was my eighth-grade English teacher.

I sit on my bathroom floor, listening as my husband tries to make an appointment with his doctor, any doctor, for tomorrow. The charcoal tile, cool beneath me, marches between us in perfect lines.