Personal

Euphemia.

No one saw who stole your name, only the white left behind, stark against gray one November visit after another could never erase. Someone sold your name, fed your name to a child, snorted your name from a plastic bag, puked your name into a cardboard box on a sidewalk. You were only a name …

Death makes good reading.

In my hometown, death is just another relative. To understand that, you need to have been born here, where you can’t turn the other cheek without being introduced to yet another cousin, or someone whose aunt was such great friends with your aunt you’re practically blood cousins even though the only common genetic inheritance you …

Music therapy.

Miss Celeste is 73 and stands like a 16-year old ballerina at a barre. When she demonstrated how a child with hyperactivity banged on her giant drum until he calmed down, she knelt on the floor and flailed her arms like Martha Graham, silver hair blurring into a halo. She played Tonight, Tonight from West …