We take our solace, in a time of malaise and mourning, in the close-at-hand.
Insomnia! There is a sickly romance to the affliction—initially.
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
I was convinced she’d be back in the morning, like the sun.
Any white man without a servant was presumed to be in need of help.
Why do girls want to cheerlead? Don’t they know it objectifies women?
I understood that life could end without warning, even young lives.
I could not tell what visions were vanishing in the dying slave.
His hands were the last to go under, pressed together into a little steeple.
I asked for water, and he shot me a look of henpecked resentment.
I had fantasies of Papa telling my son the stories he never told me.
A high roller gave her money to stay in his room for the weekend.
They lived on the street, their mom a prostitute and heroin addict.
I care only about the little body wiggling in that plastic bassinet.
Atomic bomb. How could those two words be said together?
Paharganj reels with beggars. Old women, boys, breast-feeding girls.
In medical school they forgot to tell me about caring and feeling.
Once she said, “Dying is nothing, but . . . the separation!”
For Henry Moore there is not only the best day but the worst.
I don’t know who he wants to be, and it’s not because I haven’t asked.
Fishing with Dad guaranteed two days of just us and made me special.
The sounds of Africa exploded around the white men and women.
I made him love me. To feel abandonment—again.
The wine was administered to Theo’s lips, and then the rest of us.
Only one constant existed: I wrote. Writing was my center of gravity.
Mom often went to work on her days off. The library was her refuge.
In my eyes is the flame of the adolescent he wants to hire.