Nonfiction

For my mother’s fortieth birthday, my father brought home two coats-a Persian lamb and a karakul-and told her to choose between them. She set the boxes on the dining room table and opened the first. When she lifted the coat from the box, the tissue paper fluttered upward like a wing. She tried it on…

It is men who carry the dead in our religion, but my sister and I are adamant and my mother accedes. Stepping over hillocks of soiled snow, my sister and I walk on opposite sides of the casket, borne also by nephews and uncles. The wood digs into my fingers, cuts grooves in the pillows…

Where is the Life we lost in living? -T. S. Eliot When America died, I was passed out and I never noticed. Was it a meteor or an invisible wand that waved past our eyes and blinded everyone? I awoke one morning and electrical maggots were spurting from the mind-control machine in our disheveled living…

Words sat up and behaved when James Merrill was around. Whether poetry or prose, Merrill’s writing always sounded like it fell from a tree, perfect from the start. His memoir, A Different Person, was no exception. In it, Merrill explored his early life as a young poet, a dutiful son, and a gay man in…

There is a new black woman in the English department. Several people told me about her, that she is extremely nice, and that she looks white-like me. The way they described her, I didn’t know what I’d see, though I think I thought to myself, Another “nice” light-skinned girl who knows how to make people…

I spoke to my daughter, Anya, in complete sentences when she was a conceptee and I listened for a response in her earliest cries. Some books recommended baby talk, and that was my wife, Moira’s, language with Anya, but I preferred plain English. Why offer her ears a blurry target? When it didn’t drive me…

I am reading The New York Times on Sunday, January 4, 1994. There is the following headline: recompense being sought for massacre. The article underneath the headline describes events of seventy-one years ago when a white mob terrorized a black town in Florida. The town was named Rosewood. During the rampage of the white mob…

While he was the governor of Leeds Prison, my uncle Bourke was late for breakfast twice. Usually he’d finished eating by quarter past eight, and by eight-thirty he was walking down the avenue of horse chestnuts which led from our front door to the main road; there he caught the No. 16 Wingate tram to…

The summer I was six, my parents rented an old gray-shingled house surrounded by tall hedges on a foggy, dissolving spur of Massachusetts shoreline, a house I still consider my most indelible home. We stayed there just three months, long enough for me to grow a quarter inch and to need new sneakers. One of…