"A spare, sharp memoir about the speed with which a comfortable existence can be blighted by grief.” —Bee Wilson, The Sunday Times (London)
No one in my family knew Freddie Gray. Yet each of us drew a composite sketch of the dead man.
You buy a one-way ticket to Beijing, and tell your mother you are traveling alone to figure out if China might be the answer.
How did I come to the point of romanticizing a home I could not even identify?
“It was that closeness that led me to notice the gaps that separated us.”
The day after the election, the last threads of attachment I felt to home frayed and finally broke.
“Do I really love the desert, or was that just a cute phase I went through?”
“None of the things we thought were ours actually belonged to us.”
“I’ve left the city behind, that rabid, morbid, obsequious other obsession.”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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