Most notifications earned a disinterested glance from me, and I ended up swiping them away, too lazy to change settings. But there was one type of notification that got my full attention every time: an alert from Reddit reminding me that I had a new message. Not a short and snappy message like the “What’s up?” casually sent by my friends—rather, it was almost always a long, carefully thought-out letter amounting to at least a thousand words.

I don't think I knew it at the time, but I was desperate for love when she came into my life. I had been with my husband for two years and the marriage was dying. We didn't like or trust each other, and we weren't happy. There was no intimacy in the relationship.

I was pulling a pizza out of the oven when I nicked the heating element with my left ring finger. Now where a ring might be, I have a half-centimeter stripe, symmetrical enough to suggest a wedding band, a reminder of those I've worn before. It's red—the color of stop, of angry, of hurt—evoking both my marriages: the good one that reached "until death do us part," far too soon, and the bad one that made me feel diminished.

I live in the midst of Marias, from the maternal to the eternal. My nonna, Maria Grazia, with whom I spent much of my childhood, lost three children before she had my uncle and my mom, Maria Gaetana. My days are bookended with calls to my mom: Seven in the morning, post coffee and yoga, and seven in the evening, as my day slows.

A shirtless man hollers at the top of his lungs, creating chaos in the already jam-packed Wan Chai market. The crowd disperses to the sides, allowing him to barge through with his metal cart of carcasses. As he passes, he releases the scent of sweat, unwashed hair, and rot.

May 18, 1980 – Mt. St Helens volcano in Washington State exploded with the force of 500 nuclear Hiroshima bombs, taking lives, destroying homes, spreading 540 million tons of ash over 22,000 square miles, and flattening trees for 220 square miles. It was the worst avalanche in U.S. history. Within two weeks ash had drifted around the globe.

“I’m expecting,” I told my four-year-old daughter as we trudged into the leafy woods around our home. It was a cold September day, and in her hands she held two dozen seed packets of bluebells to scatter into the rich soil beneath the trees.

A happy face on a stick transforms me. My breasts become tender, fatigue overwhelms. It becomes part of my being. Growth sprouts into a grain of rice, a blueberry, and a raspberry with duck feet. By spring, a plum dangling from a tree branch—fingernails, toes, bone.

I’d only told the baby daddy when I was sure. “So, you’re not getting rid of it then?” He’d said.

Keep mum until you've passed the first trimester. This is the gospel according to the matriarchy, and I’d followed it religiously. The latent fear is that miscarriage pursues you at your back like a winged chariot.

I am waking from a dream. No, a nightmare. My temple leans against the cool, foggy window and the sudden movement of the car shifting into gear pulls me forward, causing my head to lift. Consciousness rolls in and I remember why I am here. This is not a dream.

I woke up this morning, much earlier than I had any reason to, and lay in bed thinking about what I should do today. Then I realized I was angry, livid, frustrated to the nth degree. Why? What possibly could have happened in the five minutes cradled in the cool cavern of my bedroom, under the coziness of my sheets?

In early spring of 2018, I found myself on a phone call with an estranged cousin, Beate. I had just moved back to Germany to research and relive my childhood in preparation for work on a memoir. When my cousin learned I had moved back, she got in touch.

Desmond turns to us as we watch television and says, “I want another cat.” His lengthy eleven-year-old body reclines on our worn leather couch, hands clasped behind his head, his elbows spread like wings. After three days, his crying has subsided, and his confident expression suggests he has solved a problem.

The first beer is easy. You meet in your writing class one year before his wedding. After the first class of introductions and favorite authors, a few of your new classmates go to the local bar. He comes along, though he says very little, keeping a fresh cigarette always lit.

If one were to check the dictionary definition of resiliency and then examine my life, one would conclude that I have not arrived at being fully resilient.

I had no inklings, only longing. I wanted her to be a girl so much, I'd convinced myself of the crazy notion that if I didn't find out ahead of time, I'd get Sabrina. That would be her name.

My pale, Nordic friend, Dahlia, arrives on the station platform in Goa in late afternoon. We embrace each other in the brilliant sun, surprised to see each other in this place. I hold her trim, wiry body tight against me, surprised she’s really here.

After we dated for a few months, Miguel told me that when he saw me for the first time he immediately thought, “I hope she’s single and speaks Czech.” Only one was true.

I know many things, some of them untrue:

• By 2050, the southern half of Vietnam could all but disappear under the high tide of the South China Sea.

• The Ho Chi Minh Trail is a popular hiking destination.

• Vietnam is longer than Chile and has a greater population.

I have never been a wilderness person, preferring to hike through urban shopping districts, explore museums and cathedrals, and slide into cafes for an espresso respite. There is no call-of-the-wild in me. But, at sixty-years of age, I craved nature’s inspiration. I wanted to see ancient beauty that would exist long after my expiration date.