Intimacy. Anger.

I stood on the sidewalk as the movers hauled my family’s belongings up the cement stairs fronting our new house. They were preparing to move the piano, an old black baby grand, and this promised to be dramatic. The legs had to be unscrewed and the body brought through the front casement windows of the living room, which gave onto the porch. An audience of curious neighbors had gathered to watch. In the midst of this scene I was surrounded by a clump of girls just my size, all telling me their names at once. It was my future, come to greet me. I was three and a half years old.