The Day of Pentecost came without the usual ladder of tongues. The spike, driven through our white-bread boned shirts into our bare melon hearts, remained dry. The locusts, slung low in the trees, remained in our breath. The prophet, robed in wind, remained lost in the wilderness. The scarves about our heads. Something like a…
“Sir, I am wondering—have you considered lately what happens in Hell?” No, I hadn’t, but I liked that “lately.” We were on our way from the San Francisco Airport to Palo Alto, and the driver for Bay Area Limo, a Pakistani American whose name was Niazi, was glancing repeatedly in the rearview mirror to check…
There are times I think the past is nothing more than a room attached to ours. We enter it a hundred times a day, argue with whoever’s there; we flatten a cowlick, move the vase, true the picture on the wall. I was looking out at the garden the other day (something I tend to…
that spins too fast and then we get erased. The red and yellow leaves tickle at first, then burn all the way down our throats when they fall. Who will grease our arms for the ones we love? We release them to white bedsheets first, then to a blanket made of earth. They slip through…
“This structure has two helical chains each coiled around the same axis…It has not escaped our notice that the specific pairings we have postulated immediately suggest a possible copying mechanism for the genetic material.” —J. D. Watson and Francis Crick, on their discovery of the structure of DNA. I. In 1972, my father-in-law, Ron,…
First in a series of essays called, collectively, My Mother’s Story. My mother, Kathleen Klin Phoa circa 1948. Fact. A student at St. Mary’s Canossian secondary school in Kowloon, Hong Kong. Fact. Despite the hiatus that was the war, she was still a girl. Oh, she knew she was almost a woman, but inside,…
You have been sent for and now you must memorize a name. A new name. A borrowed name. Nine thousand feet above sea level, the options are laid out before you: Get the name right and you see your parents again; get the name wrong and you never see them again. It’s that simple. The…
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago. You probably know these lines, either from Christina Rossetti’s poem of 1871 or, more likely, Holst’s setting of them as a carol. I used one of them as the title of a book, “bleak” altered to “deep” by the…
In the Plan B essay series, writers discuss their contingency plans, extra-literary passions, and the roads not traveled. My father always wanted me to go into real estate. It was in the family: pioneer land swaps and strategic purchases during the Depression kept the Svobodas solvent. My father would stand at the edge of one…
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