The father of my lover was dying. He was of a generation (much like my own father) that didn’t talk about the past. The past had been rough. Some of us talk too much about the past, but…it’s hard to know someone who doesn’t speak of it at all.Read More
“This,” he says, “this represents the silence after they’ve come for your words. This is the sucking in of your belly the day your pants refuse to fit. And this is the sound is the sound a new city makes before your map has any real meaning.”Read More
She drops me at St. Francis Hospital and speeds off to her seamstress job, the sole income for our family at the moment.
I drag my feet down the antiseptic corridors having the first of a lifetime of existential crisis.
Pourquoi, does my German mother wants me to learn French ?
Pourquoi, do I have to spend the summer of in a hospital room?
Est plus important que tout ça, Pourquoi, is my father dying ?
“Tell me a story your mother told you when you were a kid.” My mom stands at the clothesline.I’m either 5 or 6 years old, already a trouble maker. I am lucky my house is full of books and my mother read to me every night. But what I wanted more than anything is a made-up story. One told by mouth.Read More