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Featured Pieces

A Moose, a Cake, and Unseen Eyes

March 15, 2024
Luca Suarez

The bottom of my jaw rumbles like a bony jackhammer as I press it against the car window, a feeble attempt to merge with its glassy surface and disappear forever. ​​For an eight-year-old boy, a four-hour car ride feels like an eternity. One can only be entertained by the twin LED screens of a Nintendo DS for so long before the inevitable queasiness of boredom and car sickness sets in. I struggle to unglue my rear end from the fossilized layer of gum, wax, and candy covering my seat while my brother snores nearby. The radio rings out incoherent chimes, and a blurry sign whizzing past informs me that we have just entered Queensbury, NY. I sigh and lean back onto my sticky throne, drumming impatiently on the transparent walls that imprison my hyperactive nerves. But eventually, the car stops, the bags unload, and the doors of childhood paradise slide open with a shuddering squeak. Our luggage glides soundlessly across the musty brown carpeting, eternally damp from the sweat and spilled drinks of a thousand squealing children. A stout old porter with a voice like sandpaper leads us past the lobby’s yellowing walls, which are covered in a thin layer of grime with the same consistency as a smoker’s lungs. As he points out the bathroom and the entrance to the lockers, a tumultuous battle between stale cigarettes and overpowering chlorine rages on in my nostrils. Nearby, the arcade glows in bright neon sin, tempting me with the promise of expired candy, plastic toys, and useless trinkets. While my parents argue loudly with the woman at the front desk, I initiate a staring contest with the faux moose head mounted above the seedy gift shop selling shot glasses adorned with cartoon critters and hoodies marred by gaudy designs. I try to peer past the moose’s hollow ping-pong eyes and see beyond the peeling walls and the humming lights, past the hotel’s decrepit shell and my mother’s exasperated sigh. Welcome to The Great Escape Lodge. It wasn’t really my idea, anyways. In fact, I would have much rather preferred to be spending my time with friends in New York instead of staring at phony taxidermy. But my mother had insisted that we “do something special” for the occasion, and thus my protests fell on deaf ears as we piled into our Honda Pilot and set off for the third largest indoor waterpark in New York State. Sitting just outside the Adirondacks (yet still “Adirondack-themed”), The Great Escape Lodge opened in 2006 as Six Flag’s second venture into the resort business. The hotel was greeted by to minimal fanfare and mediocre reviews, boasting a number of second-rate amenities and poorly-aged attractions like “Tak-it-Eesi-Creek” and “Tip-A-Kanu-Beach”. There were greasy fast food restaurants, subpar spas, moldy sports bars, and some kind of strange indoor hiking trail that was just a single carpeted hallway with trees painted on the walls. But the real star of the show was the state-of-the-art water park inside, which featured over 16 waterslides, a lazy river, and a comically large bucket that groaned and tipped over every 30 minutes, drowning anyone nearby in a deafening roar of ice cold water. I watched it empty its contents onto a group of unlucky guests through the sliding glass doors that separated the dingy hotel from its artificial Arcadia. My mother turns to me with approval shining in her eyes. “Isn’t this fun?”, she pleads. I shrug apathetically. The bucket apparatus sat atop a nest of pipes and girders that looked one loose screw away from a million-dollar lawsuit. A tangled mess of metal tubes spiraled out of its steeple and snaked down its sides like the brightly colored intestines of a dying animal. Children spewed out from under its limbs like hornets from a nest, howling maniacally as their pudgy feet slapped against the wet concrete floor. I grimace at the sight of the swimsuit-clad horde and try not to think about how much urine was currently stewing in those pools. Instead, I turn my attention to the Family Agenda PowerPoint Presentation, which had pinged my inbox a few minutes prior. My mother’s greatest passion in life is not going on vacation, but rather the delicate art of planning it far in advance. She finds solace in spreadsheets, spends weeks spinning webs of numbers and codes, until it all fell neatly into place and produced the illusion of ease. Our only glimpse into the full extent of her plans was the Family Agenda, a detailed catalog of events, dates, and dinners that was expected to be reviewed prior to the Morning Debrief. I never truly understood why she would do it. Why would she torture herself with self-imposed deadlines and color-coded calendars on her breaks when her job already demanded the same level of organization on a daily basis? My eight-year-old logic concluded it was the same degree of adult madness that forced me to make my bed every morning, or made me talk to my grandma when I couldn’t understand Spanish. I skim the itinerary as the porter guides us through the carpeted labyrinth to our room, his aching lungs wheezing like a broken accordion under the weight of our luggage. The door to Room 313 demands three incorrect key card swipes and a violent tug on the handle before shuddering open, and we are greeted by a tiny motel room stocked with cardboard couches and styrofoam beds. A painting of an unidentifiable landscape hangs on the wall, a smoke alarm lets out a shrill shriek, and a folded greeting card on the counter hopes that we enjoy our stay. My mother beams proudly as my brother approaches the pièce de résistance of her grand scheme, a tiny indoor shack covered with cheerful woodland creatures that takes up half of the room’s square footage. Included in the “Klub Moose Suite” package, it features a pair of bunk beds that are practically touching the popcorn ceiling and a small outdated television that buzzes with static electricity and minor radiation. My mother turns to me with a smile on her face as I stare at the inside of the closet-sized cabin and begin unpacking my bags. “Well, what do you think of your surprise? Isn’t it awesome?”, she chirps as I meticulously place my stuffed animals in the correct order on the bottom bunk. I shrug in response. “Are you excited for your presents? We can open them now if you want”. I focus on adjusting the sitting position of Baxter the Bear instead of responding to her question. A murky yellow silence hangs above us in the air. Her smile cracks slightly on the edges like a porcelain doll, and I wonder if this is what I want to be doing to my mom. She steps out of the wooden mockery and walks over to my dad, who whispers something to her that I pretend not to hear. I follow her out of the cabin and into the room. The TV is stuck on the hotel channel, cycling through an infinite loop of families plunging down innertubes and splashing happily in the water on loop. My mother has a strained expression on her face instead of a joyful one. Her voice is shaky but stern, her lips tightly pursed. “I know this isn’t what you wanted for your birthday. I know you’re tired and cranky from the drive. But don’t ruin this vacation for everyone else. At least pull it together for the next three days and try to make the best of it, okay?” I feel bile boiling in the back of my throat. A million burning thoughts rush through my head and obscure my vision. But I swallow my pride and nod. “Yeah, it’s alright”, I murmur. “Alright? I work hard for this, Luca. The least you can do is be appreciative.” The floodgates open and my thoughts come pouring out. “Yes, I appreciate it! I’m just tired from the drive, okay? I don’t even want to be here, and I’m just supposed to act like I’m happy? Why are you always so crazy? Why can’t you just relax or something?”, I snap back angrily. I regret the words the second they leave my lips, but it’s too late. My mother’s mouth drops open to respond and her watery eyes shimmer in the light. I feel my heart drop into my throat. Before I can say anything else, there’s a loud knock at the door. My mother walks over to open it, and I can hear her quickly mask her emotions with the phony enthusiasm she uses at her job. I hear heavy footsteps and frantic whispers behind the wall. I rise from the couch to see who has just come in. My heart sinks further into my stomach and does a triple backflip off an Olympic diving board. It is Spruce the Moose, the lodge’s mascot, and he is standing in our room. Accompanying him is the woman from the front desk, awkwardly grasping his elbow to lead him inside. His antlers scrape the top of the door frame and threaten to gouge the light fixture swinging overhead. I take a step backwards as he lumbers into the room, his unblinking eyes staring directly into mine as he fills the space. I look at my mother, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes and a smile plastered onto her face. I don’t think I can ever forget that look. The silent mascot holds out a cake decorated with his smiling face, and the woman from the front desk informs me that Spruce heard it was my birthday and wants to celebrate. I look up at the figure towering over me and think about the costumed employee inside. I hear him panting inside the mask, feel the gaze beneath his eyes. I think about the costume’s weight resting on his spine, the cold sweat trickling down his back, and the self-imposed binders narrowing his vision. I wordlessly opt out of the hug he offers me and shake his hand, feeling the grip inside his glove and the blood coursing through his veins. He stares at me for a moment before his head bobs up and down, his hands form a heart, and he shambles out into the hall as the front desk lady shoves a gift basket into my arms and scurries out behind him. The room lingers in stillness for a moment before dissolving into hysterical laughter. We couldn’t believe the absurdity of it all, my mom’s final surprise interrupted the one thing she couldn’t plan for. Tears trickle down her cheeks as she hugs me tight and my voice cracks in the middle of my apology. I am officially nine years old, and a chlorine-filled oasis is waiting for me beyond the musty walls of the hotel lobby. Tomorrow, I will plunge down twisting tunnels, float alongside my brother in a man-made lagoon, and squeal as an oversized bucket dumps freezing cold water down my back. But right now, the only thing that matters is that I am with my mom, and I am loved.

Most Recent

Most Recent

A Table of Our Own

Lucy Kaplan
November 12, 2025

A Table of Our Own I arrange tea candles on the tablecloth, makeshift and patterned by stains that bleed into the florals. A relic of our parents’ generation, the textile is only thick enough to disguise the aged wood it envelopes when folded twice over itself. Tonight, it bares the weight of the six hours I spent cooking. We have first une salade niçoise served with lightly candied brussel sprouts. A crested hill of layered caprese follows, sliced baguette flowering its perimeter. Guests arrive in waves. Three are early and two are insultingly late, forgiven for the gossip they bring to the table. She told me he didn’t even wave when he saw her the morning after. Friends present gifts of crisp grapes, whimsical confections, bottles they pray aren’t too sweet. As we find our seats, I wonder: is this the dinner party of our parents’ generation or a reincarnation of our childhood birthday celebrations? It seems to me as if every young adult loves a dinner party. A gathering classy enough to warrant dressing with inspiration, but intimate enough to speak without reservation. Maybe it’s the breaking of bread, a practice reportedly powerful enough to have united the Democrats and the Federalists, the Wampanoag and the colonists. But just as those narratives are not simple truths, neither is the elation of our careful gatherings. Dining together can be as unpleasant as it is festive. Generations of meals have been the source of unassailable tension: reunions made unpalatable by parental bickering and younger brothers smacking their gravy-smeared lips. In attendance are the people we love—though perhaps do not always like. Our dinner parties, however, are distinct in their autonomy of choice. In childhood, parents managed the grunt work, pitching fairy-lit tents in the living room, ordering pizza to satiate the crowd. Now, we find ourselves left to our own devices. We create countless lists in the name of adulthood. Dinner 07.13 Invite list: Yeses, nos, maybe-sos. A back-up list if someone falls through; empty chairs thrill no one. Invitation draft: Dearest friends, you have been chosen. Dress appropriately. Menu: Parmesan crisped yams, miso butter gnocchi, flank steak. Made to impress. Shopping list: Chicory root, sardines, brie. The cheapest available. Setting the table, I think about generations past. Decades prior, someone else a few years older must have stood in this kitchen—a local career politician or an established dermatologist. He too was expecting visitors, but with not nearly as much anticipation. He knew the procedure by rote—when to serve the second course, when to slyly refill his neighbor’s wine glass. He could identify a false laugh and ease a lapse in conversation without skipping a beat. The guests were familiar, practiced in leaving their shoes at the front door. I can almost place my childhood self into the scene: sunken into the corner chair, across from the man in the ugly scarf. Last time I saw you, I could have fit you in my briefcase! Why do middle-aged academics delight in making middle-schoolers feel small? Our guests are poles apart, far closer in affect to the children our parents once invited to summer movie nights on our behalf. They stumble at the formalities. Someone might forego the formal dress code for a sloppy pair of basketball shorts; we will say nothing but stare as he meticulously covers his lap with a napkin. Dock one point. Someone else might bring a new boyfriend with no notice; we will feign placidity as he pulls an extra seat between a pair of best friends longing to catch up. Dock two points, maybe even three. But what we lack in finesse we make up for in forgiveness. Friendship is a delicate thing—we know some faux pas are best granted a silent pardon. Warm light washes down our nerves as the feast begins. Some go all-in, stacking their plates with mismatched goodies brought by unpracticed guests. (Was this supposed to be a potluck? No one quite got the story straight.) Others graze, arms extending clumsily across the table to pluck an olive, a “pardon my reach” carefully uttered. We take an unspoken pride in our maturity, remembering our pleases and thank-yous so far from the oversight of our elders. The night then goes one of two ways. The clinking of cutlery might crescendo at half-past nine. Replacing it will be an awkwardness which we bear with guilt. If the spark of enlightened conversation never catches fire, we are left with a table full of friends-turned-family-turned-strangers. We might have worn the badges we found in our parents’ closets with too much assurance. Cause of death: an indulgence of formality and poverty of wine. One can only pretend that they don’t want to talk about sex for so long. Tonight, however, we evade a tragedy of the commons. The now unlit candles go unnoticed, puttering out one after the other; as the tablecloth dims, our momentum only swells. Half of the crowd is debating the merits of Machiavelli, the other half the audacity of a kid we knew from high school. The catch is, it doesn’t really matter. Everyone is full and no one wants to leave. Someone reveals an expensively curated box of chocolates from a rumpled tote they had carefully hidden beneath the table. We pass it counterclockwise, excitedly snagging the sweet recommended by the person before. I bite down and my mouth bursts with nostalgia. A buttery shortbread, laced with silky caramel and enrobed in milk chocolate—a Twix bar by another name. I watch my friends bite into rebranded versions of their own childhood favorites: Snickers, Milky Way, Almond Joy. Are they too thinking about Halloweens past? How we zealously provoked territorial disputes over the mounds of sweets poured onto my living room floor. It feels no different than how we tonight bicker over who deserves the final drops from the bottle. Across the table sits the girl who watched me blow out purple candles on my eleventh birthday. She wore different glasses back then, thicker frames that obscured the brilliant eyes that now lock with mine. I watch her fingers toy with the stem of a glass as she chews her grown-up Kit Kat. To love her is to peer through a foggy window. If I squint, I can piece together the blurry outlines of our past: the pizza parties, the Halloween spats, the movie nights we spent wrapped in blankets on the porch. Then a new image clears—decades of future soirees coming into view. I am elated to see that the future unfolds not at our parents’ tables, but around a table of our own.

Zia Felicetta: A Portrait

Luca Raffa
November 12, 2025

I parked in her empty driveway and approached the proud house with stubborn orange bricks. The black railing guiding me to the door ailed with rust, though the white paint on the house was fresh as the snow. It was dim, the sun obscured in this dull December sadness, and the icy lake winds caused the lampposts to shiver with doubt. I rang the little doorbell and peered around. The short bungalows huddled close together to keep warm from the snow. Darkness was beginning to blanket the neighborhood. Suddenly, a faint light flickered on from inside. I peeked through the doorframe glass with a smile and watched as a figure hurried towards me. The door opened. Zia Felicetta greeted me with a tender hug and the touch of her delicate cheeks on each of mine. Her demeanor was elusive, her faint smile always uncertain below her serious eyes––sad, dry eyes which caved into her head and cast shadows. The wrinkles on her cheeks and on her forehead revealed the scars of time, though her small diamond earrings restored some dormant youth still hiding within her. Black strands like needles freckled the white hay that crowned her head. Zia waddled towards the kitchen, and her plump body disappeared into the dark. A nativity scene of plastic figurines emerged in the corner. Zia had been a widow for over forty years and was the last and only surviving of five loving sisters and their husbands. Across the walls, these ghosts gawked at me, black and white, through the frames: Zia’s husband holding her tight in her wedding dress; her sisters––Carmella, Roquina, Peppinella, and Maria, my grandmother––through the years at her wedding, and at their weddings, and at their children’s weddings; her nephews and nieces who died as infants; the only surviving photograph of her mother Vittoria, the woman she watched die as an infant, wearing a dirt-caked shirt, a shoddy headscarf, and a faint smile; her father as a young man with a black coppola hat and a black mustache; and the same man with a bushy grey mustache and slicked back hair. Hovering higher on the walls were images of saints, Gesù, crucifixes, and a collection of memoriam cards she gathered over years from funerals. She even framed a photograph of Montoleone di Puglia, the town she left behind: a cluster of orange shingles, brown bricks, and white concrete sleeping on a hill and surrounded by green planes and wildflowers. Zia returned holding a ready plate of cookies wrapped in tinfoil, the wrinkly fat drooping from her arms from the weight of the plate. She invited me to sit at the table and offered me an espresso which I knew I could never refuse. She vanished again into the kitchen, and in the silence of her home I could hear the clanking as she fed the cafetera the espresso grinds and placed it on the stove. When she returned to the dining room table, she unwrapped the cold cookies. She enjoyed making food and freezing it for an infrequent visitor. She put a hard candy into her mouth that reeked of licorice, anise, and fennel and began to suck. The hot espresso breathed life into us and kindled conversation. She was simple, of little words, knowing only how to talk about her food, her family, her garden, or God. She had no preferences, few opinions. She paused a lot and would watch me. She was a patient woman, watching intently and listening as I sipped on my bitter espresso. When she began to speak, the movement of her firm jaw and soft lips came together in a symphony of schwas. Soon, it was time for me to depart and return Zia to her solitude. Her frail pleas asking me to stay surrendered to my guilty resoluteness, and she disappeared into the basement for one last parting gift. As I waited for her before the door, I glanced at the frames on the wall again. I started to wonder if Zia ever talked to these ghosts––after all, she was a spiritual woman. Zia emerged from the staircase and brought me more cookies in tinfoil and a panettone to remember her by. She embraced me and kissed each cheek, speaking to me I love you in her unsteady English. I said goodbye. She waited alone in the frame of the door. The cold followed her inside. I thought about how she might become a photograph someday, and my heart sank.

A Few Impressions

Juliet Corwin
November 6, 2025

– CT, left wrist – I drove to Connecticut to get my first tattoo. The studio, smaller than its parking lot, was tucked away in a gray fold of Stamford. It had been a drizzly morning, and clouds sighed as I walked to the entrance. Timidly, I leaned against the door so it wouldn’t slam shut and scanned the space for a pair of eyes to meet mine. It was my first time inside a tattoo studio, and it showed. Two feet in front of me, a woman lay on her side in a shirt, underwear, and Doc Martens. She chatted with her artist, who hunched over a spread of ink covering the woman’s thigh. The walls were covered in overlapping sketches and prints. Sitting by the only other station in the room was a large man with a permanent frown and huge biceps. I gathered that he would be my artist, and moved toward him. His frown deepened when he saw me. He spoke in short sentences, his voice low and quiet. I showed him the tattoo I wanted and presented my wrist to draw on. Opting for a purple marker, he splashed the design onto my skin way too big. I asked if he could make it any smaller. His eyebrows lifted, but he rubbed away the first drawing and drew it again, a bit smaller. I looked at him pleadingly, too nervous to ask him to change it again. He took the hint and resized it once more. It was tiny, barely a quarter of an inch in height and width. I smiled, and his mouth flattened into a straight line. He prepped the ink and the tattoo gun, and didn’t wear gloves. It took about five minutes to ink the design using the thinnest needle he had. He wiped the excess ink and a few drops of blood from my skin, and I could see the little lines now adorning my wrist. It was perfect. He explained to me that he typically asked clients to pay upwards of $100, but for this he wouldn’t charge more than $40. I paid him $60 and thanked him again. He nodded and pressed one of his sketches into my hand. I had been admiring it while the needle dragged along my skin. It was full of color and soft lines, a warm swirl of tones. As I stepped out the door, I saw that the woman getting the leg tattoo was now eating takeout with her artist. I walked back to my car, watching the clouds inch lower. My wrist stung as I spun the steering wheel home. – MA, right ear – For one of my later tattoos, I filled out an online appointment form for a studio in my hometown in Western Massachusetts. I got matched with an artist named Ian. The space was big, with a lower level for tattoos and an upper level for piercings. There was a waiting area with high ceilings and tons of plants. Ian emerged from his studio and greeted me with a warmth I trusted. He was bald with a long, white beard and eyes that crinkled when he spoke. Ushering me into his studio, he told me to hop up on the table and rolled his chair over to join me. The design I had chosen was simple, and I wanted it to sit behind my ear. He used a disposable razor to shave the edge of my hairline. As the blade scraped at my scalp, we chatted about tattoos I’d gotten in the past. We sized down from the first print he had made, and then he carefully peeled a purple outline onto my skin. He handed me a small mirror that reflected into a big mirror on the wall so that I could see the placement. I told him I liked it. He instructed me to stretch one arm out past my head and rest my cheek on it, lying on my side. The tattoo took forty minutes to ink, and he spoke the whole time. He asked me about myself, about school, about the tattoo’s meaning. I tried to answer in a calm and steady voice despite the pulsating needle bouncing against my skull. Several times he praised my composure, saying that most clients who got tattooed behind their ears can’t sit very well. It wasn’t hard to understand why. When he was done, he told me to take my time getting up. I ignored his advice, pushing up fast and immediately regretting my choice. The sudden absence of vibration on my head left my vision blurry, and I felt lightheaded as I walked back to the waiting area to pay. The person at the register was bubbly and asked loudly if I loved my new ink. I did, and told them so, paid and tipped Ian. I walked out onto the streets of my childhood, my new ink still buzzing quietly. – MN, right hip – My favorite tattoo was inked in Minnesota. A cold Thursday night in December, I arrived at a brightly lit studio in Minneapolis. I was a few minutes early, and sat on a very hard bench in the waiting area. My artist was finishing up with another client, so I pored over the design I’d asked for again. The appointment didn’t start for another forty minutes. When my artist finally came over and said she was ready for me, she seemed annoyed. I showed her the design and she scowled at me, snatching up her iPad and scribbling. She asked me if I had drawn it myself, which I had. After some more silent drawing, she held the iPad toward me. She had taken my (admittedly unskilled) design and created a much better tattoo. Her lines were clean, the shape gentle. I thanked her, she sighed. I wanted the tattoo on my hip, but because of the weather I’d worn sweatpants over my shorts. She rolled her eyes as I took off my sweatpants, pointing out that I could keep one of the legs on if I wanted to. I took the suggestion. When we sized the tattoo, she gave me three options. I picked the middle one, and she placed the outline on my hip. I walked, half-sweatpantsed, to the mirror and watched how the design moved with me. I loved it. I got up onto the table, lying on my side as she instructed. She inked in silence, except for a frustrated question about whether I was holding my breath. I had been, without realizing it, and tried to slowly exhale without annoying her further. When it was finished, my new ink looked delicate and natural on my skin. It is still the best tattoo I have. I carefully pulled the leg of my sweatpants back on over the wrapped ink. As I walked back into the Minnesota snow, my hip pinched with each step.

Two-Day Trip Home

Elaine Rand
November 6, 2025

There’s a new fence in the yard where the trellis once kissed the ground, a padlock on the gate in the alley left by an admirer or a forgetful biker. The front door of the house is newly painted navy blue, but the latch still sticks. An assortment of sunscreen bottles, displaced from the back porch, live in the garage alongside the dead dog’s bed, which has been inherited by my parents’ new one. Sunscreen spread on skin, bug spray interrupted by the sound of barking. I throw the puppy a ball, and she runs around the periphery of the yard, still chasing something invisible long after she has caught it in her mouth. Once, we pitched a tent here, but the pea popped up beneath my back. The tent’s been lost for a decade now. Dirt on the lawn chairs, dirt under fingernails, plastic sacks of mulch stacked tall. A smear of Indiana soil on the back steps to be powerwashed come next year. Inside the house, hairballs nestle in the gap between the refrigerator and the linoleum. The countertop is home to packets of tuna, a plastic Brita pitcher covered in hard water film, recalled pistachios yet to be thrown away. On the wall hangs the prim calendar, which still reads “March” in June. On the floor, WD-40 and Clorox wipes share real estate with cans of wet food and salmon dog treats for brain health. I can hear the nettles rattling outside. They’re strewn along the berm so the puppy can’t romp without getting her short legs caught. Through the window, there’s the redbud that sprouted where the garden patch used to be, more tenacious than the tomatoes. It towers over the ghosts of withered vines, the home-farming love fest brief and barely remembered. There is honor in an intact ear, one without the cartilage pierced—my mother said so long ago. But is there honor in an ear that burns? Both of mine turn bright when someone’s grandma asks me if I’m single. She showed my picture to her son. Lucky that breathing fire with a closed mouth leaves the tongue’s flames extinguished. I smile and deflect, teeth thick with ash. Tomorrow, I will drive away, “Wide Open Spaces” on the stereo. No flat land precipice to fall from anymore. The voices haven’t changed. No new timbres, no unexpected inflections, only the occasional quiet indignity. My shadow informs the conversations. Hello to the teenage neighbor I babysat when she was three and I was 12. Hello to my best friend’s brother, who has forgotten my name. Hello to the photo of great-aunts Elaine and Madeline on the mantle. Goodbye to the swimming pool by my elementary school; I used to leap into the water again and again. Goodbye to the cornfield, razed to build a strip mall, and the strip mall, minced and bulldozed to make room for a high rise. Goodbye to the uncertainty that once roiled inside me in the neighborhood where I used to live. I’ve juiced every drop I can from this place. When I take a sip, I taste only the dregs. Two days ago, I boiled soba noodles and cut hot peppers and cilantro for lunch, snapping carrots in half as men sprayed the dead trees outside with red paint and ran the chainsaw. Today, the radio on the porch plays a couple seconds ahead of the one in the living room, the sponsorship message echoing as it sings: “Committed to building a more just, verdant, and peaceful world.”

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