Judith and Holofernes

I was eight when I opened the book my dad bought me on our first and last trip to the Met together. The book was a volume of masterpieces printed on glossy pages. It had cost, as my mother furiously pointed out when my father, younger brother, and I returned home to Jackson Heights, a week’s worth of groceries.

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.