A memory of my father: we are on the train together—the subway that goes above ground, the subway that goes below ground, and we are on our way. On our way to so many places.
A memory of my father: the train stops at a station and my father stands up. I stand up with him, but he tells me to sit down. “Don’t get up,” he says. “I’m just going to check the map.” He holds onto the doorway and lurches outside; his body is out of the train car, getting as close to the map on the platform as possible. It looks like he is about to let go and jump out onto the platform, and I imagine the train doors closing with me in it and him outside of it, and I become afraid and rush to his side.… ...continue reading
Sam Carranza wasn’t at the San Bernard library to escape the heat or read the papers. He was looking for a man. Sam had a picture, taken years earlier. It showed a spry sixty-something with a mop of white hair and clear blue eyes. Thadée Molyneux would have been a good fit for the elderly set that perused publications in the library lounge, but he wasn’t among them.
Molyneux had dementia. He absconded from the retirement home where Bella, his daughter, had put him. Bella, teary-eyed, told Sam the police had called it quits. It was end July in heat-hammered West Texas. Molyneux might have fallen in a ditch, encountered a rattler, or a two-legged predator. The cops gave Bella Sam’s number. Maybe he could help, and his fee was reasonable.… ...continue reading
He makes love to her wondering if it will be the last time. He walks out afterward, but not in a cruel way. He’d held her, run his fingers through her dark hair, massaged her scalp with his fingertips, looked into her brown eyes and told her he loved her. He leaves knowing he had told her the truth.
He drives away trying not to think about her tears or her confusion as to why. He was terrible at trying to explain why; to her, to his parents. All he knows for sure is that something inside—his heart, or conscience, or spirit, or whatever the fuck, is pulling him away from everything familiar. He has to leave. No forwarding address, no plan, no idea where he’s going.… ...continue reading
“Maybe it’s just our generation, but there’s always been this constant pressure to actively work towards success, money, or fame… There’s this fear that if you haven’t made a name for yourself by the age of twenty, you’ll never be successful,” says a member of Kindergarten Breakfast, a highschool-based satire band, “And when you’re working with the arts, that pressure is even more extreme. You have to be amazing. You have to be the best. You have to be something the world’s never seen, or it feels like you’re nothing at all. It’s absolutely dreadful on the mind—it makes you feel worthless, it makes you feel guilty if you’re not always working, working, working . . . and it’s exhausting. Oh boy, is it exhausting.”
Amazing.… ...continue reading
Take the water. Touch it at the rim. The
Amazon. The Mississippi. Flowing east and
south until they empty into the same ocean,
becoming the same body. Springs and
trickles, tributaries bringing wisdom, life, and
over time maturing into continental
waterways, spilling over banks that cradled
them like the darling sips they were.
Fertilizing floodplains to feed the hungry
masses. Turning forests into lakes, where
mystic dolphins twist through roots and
murk, offering fertility—the birth of your
imagination, the future to behold. And the
water knows itself until it doesn’t: delta
meaning change. Then, El Niño, heavy, pulls.
Sucks up the humpbacks’ sighs, and the rivers
once again are cumulus, raining into tiny
ponds a mountain range away, and you pack
the car with everything you need to make the
drive out west, because that is where you’re
going, and this you know for sure.… ...continue reading
Charlotte was to the manor born, lived that way until her father gambled the family down from mansion to middle-income home to shanty, until her third marriage was to a poor dirt farmer and factory worker. But Charlotte knew her mother was frugal and crafty, so figured her mother had squirreled away as much or more than what her father had squandered. All she had to do was wait for her mother to die, and she would inherit the hidden fortune. Such hope kept her alive, but not long enough
On her deathbed, Charlotte asked her mother how much she would have inherited should she have outlived her mother. Her mother told her “millions”. And next Saturday, Charlotte’s mother went to confession, asked the priest to grant her absolution for having lied to her daughter on the daughter’s deathbed.… ...continue reading
While on vacation in South America, sixty-six-year-old Angela finally can let go of her daughter Zoe.
Angela and Emilio fly into Cartagena, Colombia, and stay on the resort premises. The end of an isthmus jet out to Cartagena Bay.
Remote. Secluded.
Surrounded by water on three sides. Waves, foaming white on the edges of the brown sea, warm on Angela’s toes. Palm trees, tiki hut, lead-heavy air. An afternoon thunderstorm is expected to cool the air for the night. Zoe, their daughter, would have loved this ferocious sun, cloudless sky. Sunglasses, straw hats, shorts, sandals, fried plantains, sancocho with corn and yuca. But Zoe refuses to join them. Instead, she wants to go camping with Luke. Angela came late to childbearing. Zoe was premature. Angela sets up a ring of fire to protect her since the day she was born. … ...continue reading