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Over their twice-monthly pint of Guinness, two friends discover that their babies-to-be, the first for each man, are due only a week apart and that both will be daughters. The fair-haired friend’s happy exultation touches off a series of congratulations from the other patrons; the bartender, who has little girls of his own, serves them several more rounds on the house.
You can count on the crowsbefore sunset, bickering.This is my faith.How they swirl the air like inkor smudge the treesin charcoal, out of syncwith their own shadows.This is my faith before nightfallas evening skiesthe color of rosésegue to blackwith echoes of cruel laughter.
The immortal dogs of my fictions,exhausted from centuries of fetch,are laid out in puddles of sunor rummaging for slugsin the banks of soggy leaves.It is autumn, and the airis a bakery of dander and pollen.It is autumn, and the immortaldogs of my fictions are sniffingand digging for ancient wisdoms.In the bulges of mulch, in theoutstretched hands of children,there is something
It is St. Patrick’s Day, 1989, and I am fifteen years old. On that Friday evening, Demetris, a friend from school, is at a party. I am known as a social butterfly because I am outgoing and funny, and make people feel comfortable without being terrible. Demetris, a year older, also possesses these traits, and perhaps this is the crux of our friendship.
Wool socks. Diapers. Mittens. Hats. Dresses. The fear of God. Dark rye flour. Clogs made from scraps of lumber and leather. The Torah in Hebrew and Russian. One good wool suit. A child’s necktie. The Tsenah Urenah. A straight razor. A hand mirror. The plague of boils. Photographs of faces no longer considered human. The plague of darkness. Armbands bearing the Star of David.