My mother and I drive up Parnassus Avenue in the hills of San Francisco. Listening to our iPod, I sing along to “Gold Dust Woman” by Fleetwood Mac. Usually, my mother would join me, especially since this song is one of our favorites, but she seems ashamed of her weakening voice. The pulsating rhythm of the song enhances the nervous tension as we charge up the Victorian-lined incline. ~excerpt from prose
"View From A Hill,"
The Tuxedo Archives: Vol. 2006
, Article 8.
Available at: http://scholar.dominican.edu/tuxedolit/vol2006/iss2/8