“The symptoms of anxiety and the symptoms of a haunting are so similar.”
What I knew about my grandparents was enough to fill every hidden closet, every secret candy drawer.
They imagine I’m his “caretaker,” a loaded word, veritably stuffed with presumption.
“Very deep down I know that we will rise, but for now, I still need to mourn the debris.”
Kids are all mystery, and mine are no different, but the unknown has especially marked my son.
“Being a funny girl like Fanny continues to skew the way I see myself.”
Once upon a time, in a land much larger than this one . . .
Even as a child I found extreme pleasure in the things I could control.
Remembering the online world of gay chat rooms in the digital moment before social media.
The story affirms our goodness by assuring us we did it on our own. The story tells us to not make waves.
If I collect Oma’s memories, if I truly remember my grandmother, I too can retain what is slipping away.
On Election Night, I thought again of the boy who assaulted me. When had I finally stopped blaming myself?