Ourselves and This Once Empty House

Ourselves and This Once Empty House

We know these streets. We know the houses, the bicycles. We know the rain covered cars parked up and down the wet asphalt. And we know the house up the street, empty for a long time, a family leaving it there to sell when it could be sold, because the rain was too...
Hands

Hands

  One minute I’m trying to take care of a dry spot at the side of the house, the next I’m staring at fallen hands. Not maple leaves, mind you—hands. I dropped the hose and felt the morning, and all its promises, empty straight through me. Just regular hands,...
The War Watchers

The War Watchers

The war goes on. It seems endless. But it should end some day, because everything ends some day. And this war is something. And something is included in everything. There is something in everything. She opened the door a crack. “The war will end,” I said....
Persimmons

Persimmons

Harada would not look beyond the kitchen’s pass once Takahashi’s presence in the small restaurant had been announced. The chef’s typically quiet manner turned more quiet still as he bent closely over his knife. His sous-chefs danced around him with pots of hot water...
A Chicago Story

A Chicago Story

She is up against the wall in the kitchen, pushed against the world’s smallest refrigerator, one hand on the world’s smallest oven, bright hot red. She is saying something. What is she saying? The apartment is crowded. Who are these people. All these people. She is...
The Gun Room

The Gun Room

The gun room has two doors, or three–compare the first, if you please, with the father’s body–and a table painted gray. The parlor wallpaper, from afar, through the garden window, or as it appears in a photograph, torn out one morning from this book or...