The big comb is ocean-colored, made of hard plastic. There’s a photo, somewhere in our apartment, of me, aged eighteen months and in a diaper, holding the comb in my tiny hand, my hair a forest from birth. This comb is, apparently, a family heirloom, like the dining table with the paint flecks and peeling glaze, and the full-length mirror. My grandmother used this comb in my mother’s hair, and my mother used it in mine. Read more →
Tomorrow, At Dawn (Demain dès l’aube, Les Contemplations, 1856) Tomorrow, at dawn, the hour in which the country whitens, I will leave. You see, I know that you wait for [More…]
I built Heaven when I was four. My parents were fighting and I could not bear it, so I went in the cupboard in my room, closed the door, pressed my hands hard against my ears until they hurt, and I closed my eyes. It all came to me instinctively. At first, it was barely anything; a few apple trees, a strawberry field, two or three dogs and endless sunshine. I spent an hour in this place, climbing the trees, picking the strawberries, playing with the dogs. When I left, my parents had stopped fighting. Read more →
I could smell the cigarette smoke before I could see him. A few steps closer, and I could see the shadow of his cane.
He sensed me coming through the trees. Before I could say anything to him, my grandfather said, “Be quiet. Stand Still. Listen carefully.”
So I stood still, quite aware that I could not be as still as him. When my grandfather decided to be still it was as if he had subtracted his body from the air.
I listened. I could hear my grandfather drawing on the eternal cigarette in his mouth. Read more →
Lima, 2017: My uncle’s car smells like Vienna sausages and bad eggs. We’re driving through Jesus Maria, and then to the ocean. He keeps fidgeting with the windows, unsure of where the smell is coming from. The car battery broke down on the way to the airport, he tells me. It shut off at a gas station, and the attendants had to push the car into the street, so it could start after picking up some speed. Afraid that the battery would shut off again, my uncle left the car running, and waited for my call in the parking lot. Read more →
Yesterday, Father takes me aside as I’m leaving and asks me, have I noticed Mother’s…? He fails to find the words. We’re on the landing outside. The porch light gives us this comforting embrace — the night kept at bay — only a few glittering excursions of insects, like sparks or flakes in our little snow globe scenario.
I take a long moment to think of Mother saying she feels good-strong. Capable but just nicely lazy…Read more →