The life of my Lolo and my family in the Philippines is a deep reminder that people live full lives there and places like it, across the globe.
My mother described the Rembrandt paintings as her friends. I'd never heard anyone talk about art that way, instilling it with something like a personhood of its own.
I deliberately and obstinately use the word ‘limdi’ and not the term ‘curry leaf’ because the word ‘curry’ has always bothered me.
“My father, was alive, in me—in my reflection, in my voice, in my posture.”
On the heels of my diagnosis, I feel there is no way to construct a narrative around what’s happening to me—a deep betrayal for a writer.
Will my intestines turn the sacred bread into holy shit, or does the miracle not extend that far into the digestive process?
I wish I’d known Molly years ago. I wish I had known her when I was twelve years old, wondering who in my life would still love me if they knew my secret.
I wanted her language, her understanding of Honduras, a family like hers. I wanted things she could never give me.