No one saw who stole your name, only the white left behind, stark against gray one November visit after another could never erase. Someone sold your name, fed your name to a child, snorted your name from a plastic bag, puked your name into a cardboard box on a sidewalk. You were only a name …
In my hometown, death is just another relative. To understand that, you need to have been born here, where you can’t turn the other cheek without being introduced to yet another cousin, or someone whose aunt was such great friends with your aunt you’re practically blood cousins even though the only common genetic inheritance you …
I already miss our new old house and we’ve not been back a day. I call it the new old house because it’s a new house filled with old things, an accretion of crocheted antimacassars, floral bedspreads, ceramic animals, free tumblers, glow-in-the-dark holy figurines and back issues dating to the invention of the printing press, …