Essay by Valerie Bacharach
I don’t know why I think of her now, standing at the cliff’s edge, nothing before me but water.
I don’t know why I think of her now, standing at the cliff’s edge, nothing before me but water.
That spring, still lamenting the loss of sidewalks, my daughter would barely leave the house without me by her side.
I watched each day, until everything, save for one tall building in the middle of the block with doctors’ offices on the first floor, was rubble and dust.
We yawned, slapped at flies, already unmoved by the pageantries of masculinity.
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.
We talk making art with a message—getting people to look and listen.
Maybe I’m finally starting to make my peace with living in the Midwest.
I felt an overwhelming urge to get the hell out.
...and signs that you are in the wrong relationship.
...and the market dances while the music is playing.