Margaret Fuller’s name keeps appearing in my writing, as if I’m trying to summon her spirit by mentioning it enough times. I’ve been reading her essays and letters, getting lost in the pages of “Woman in the Nineteenth Century” and feeling a strange sense of kinship with this woman who lived over 150 years ago. …
I’m staring at the fridge trying to figure out why Karen texted me yesterday asking if I could grab milk on my way home from work. The milk’s sitting there unopened right now. Which is weird, because I could’ve sworn she told me during lunch that she already picked some up herself. Unless she meant …
