Apres yoga by Vanessa Fiola

The other day when I made the mortal and uninformed sin of going to a Buti™ class even though I didn’t know what it was, and also is anything in the yoga world really real anymore, anyway, I happened into children’s clothing store on the way back to the car. Happening into children’s stores is my superpower these days, albeit a fairly useless one.

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Seeing spots by Vanessa Fiola

On the base of my son’s spine there is a faint purple spot just bigger than the size of a quarter. This spot looks like a bruise and when he was born, the midwife pointed it out. “Your son has a Mongolian spot.” I didn’t know what she meant but I was vaguely proud. Though she could have told me that he had a third ear and I would have been like, “Oh my god that’s so perfect!”

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Tell me a line, make it easy for me by Vanessa Fiola

When I was fourteen I was shipped off to live with my grandmother in Streamwood, Illinois. I had been caught, on the last day of ninth grade, bumming beer from a bunch of twenty-one year olds who really had no business hanging out with teenagers. There was a girl in the mix of them. Her name was Kris and I will never forget her because she was pretty and cool and she didn’t belong buying beer at a Circle K in Kent, Washington for three underage kids.

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