I owe my life to a bullet that pierced my father’s skull. The time was July 1942, the place, Staraya Russa. But Staraya Russa is not the way to begin this story; it belongs in the second part of the middle, closer to the end. The beginning was in Moscow, a few years before the … Read more
Old Road Sign The sere severed plywood sign painted a modest white was nailed once to spindly posts among the water oaks. Now by accident it dangles, peeling and warped. Underbrush too dense perhaps to let the fool board fall. The paint is blanched so that it fairly imitates the mists oft seen in bayous … Read more
It was because of Daniel that Mary Ann remembered Tom again; because she’d found out about Daniel’s latest affair. “Latest” was how she would position it to everyone now; one of an incalculable number—whether spaced apart or pressed together didn’t matter anymore because Mary Ann could only see a faceless mass of paramours sprawled one … Read more
Oscar Wilde said that the tragedy of being old is that one is still young. I am eighty-six, going on nineteen. Is this a record? I’ve been pruning and wood carving with my chainsaw for years. There is no shortage of wood from the trees that I planted thirty years ago. The resultant grotesque heads … Read more
At thirty-two, after decades of sporting a headscarf, I abandoned the practice and exposed my bad hair days. There was a short-lived, still humongous, stir. At home, there was one overriding fear: “And what will people say?” I had long interpreted the headscarf as a politico-cultural expression of Islamic modesty; for years though, I never … Read more
I felt him sliver under my shirt as she belted me in with a quicksilver click. The shoulder strap muffled my mouth and eclipsed an eye. Mom sipped her coffee, singing along to the song on the radio, ‘One less egg to fry … ’ Only half of what lay ahead was in sight, but … Read more