Even the air inside her place was yellow. I can still picture her in the stale dark, hunched over like a plant bending back toward its roots. A blanket covers her knees; an oxygen tank wheezes beside her; a cigarette glows between her fingers.

She also wrote for Cup of Jo about talking to kids about sex

To my five-year-old-self, Mrs. Murray seemed as old as the earth. It was hard to believe we were even the same sort of thing.

My brother and I spent a lot of time in her dim kitchen waiting for our mom to get home from some temp job or another. I don’t recall any particular warmth between us, but I do remember that whenever we knocked at her door, she always opened it.

We tried to repay her for that kindness. Mom snuck us in to redecorate with fresh wallpaper and hand-sewn curtains. read more