CREATIVE WORK
Litro Magazine​
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'White Deer'
First-place winner of The Art of Reflection Competition 2022
I was ten when my father first spoke of the deer. He sat at the dining room table, a cup of hot coffee out in front of him, steam floating under his chin. It was autumn, the morning air was cold, the house drafty with the scent of dead leaves. My father’s eyes, a royal blue, were glowing as he talked about the deer. I watched hunched over my oatmeal, the smell of maple all around me, brown sugar coated the back of my throat.
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Oc87 Recovery Diaries
'PTSD: The Unlikely Disease that Brought my Father and I Together'​If I’m crazy, then so was my father.​Growing up, I was always told I was a lot like him. It was true, I had inherited many of his traits: stubborn independence, obsessive drive, and effortless concealment of anxiety. I was close with my mom and sister, but everyone knew I was daddy’s little girl. I’d keep him company in the garage as he’d saw precious woods into various shapes and sizes, and I’d pile the sawdust into small mounds, pretending it was food for make-believe customers. We’d repeatedly watched Lady and the Tramp on VHS, my father always imitating the whistling beaver. I’d laugh every time he said the word “ttthhh-ycamore” between his teeth. He showed me how to ride a bike without training wheels when I was small, then later taught me to drive a car at age sixteen, my white knuckles clenched the steering wheel as tightly as they once did around the handlebars.​
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