Essay by Amanda M. Capelli
Growing up in the spaces between place and time changes how you see the world, the awareness that these constructs are malleable.
Growing up in the spaces between place and time changes how you see the world, the awareness that these constructs are malleable.
The man who once stood on a chair was also the one who took me skating with him every Saturday morning when I was a girl.
As I looked back, they sifted through the air, like ash, and resumed feeding.
Sometimes I felt an unnameable foreboding—a harbinger that my easy state of grace was beginning to slip away.
I’ll put her hair in pigtails, fishtails, French braids, waterfall braids, Dutch braids—whatever she wants.
One of our first meals in this new country was the hamburger, a food that was, we were told in the camps, invented by Americans.
Every walk I took with my daughter, the world opened before me as if newly created.
She convinced herself that the people on the walls were really her family.
Emotions she didn’t dare express out loud would appear at the end of her paintbrush.
Those mornings shivering at the mean edge of the public pool were worth it for the moment when you’d slide into the deep end.