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Locked Doors

Chopping a door into slivers; sitting two seats back, one row over to his right; being swept up by an undertow

Insomnia

My Mother Is Still Alive

Stones: A Love Story

When Izzy gets to the boardwalk, she thinks about turning back. Maybe he won’t remember her, maybe he’s forgotten it all.

Lost Causes

A good girl, a neglected child, a disappointed daughter

Doing Good

A foot massage, two demonic brothers, a thief

Homecoming

A tiny duckling, a bullethole in the ceiling, chocolate chip cookies and bomb craters

Sonderkommando

“The Holocaust is boring, honey. I lost it with that last Louis Malle film. It’s as old as platform shoes. They trivialize it.” Carla isn’t Jewish. “You oppress yourself, honey.” I nodded.

Of Lineage And Love

When he was old, I tried to introduce him to the Buddhist doctrine of emptiness; I thought it would ease any anxiety he might be having about the imminence of death. “Ultimately,” I began, “you never were.” “Maybe not,” he said, peering over the rim of his glasses, “but I made a hell of a splash where I should have been.”

The Necessity To Speak

I see them every day, the wounded women in the supermarket or in the bookstore, the children beaten to a whimper until all life has grayed in them. I’ve learned to recognize Fear’s signature scrawled across their faces, the way one learns to recognize a man who walks with a “prison shuffle.”