Some recent work unrelated to the main themes I keep returning to. Many are set in a town loosely resembling Kitchener, Ontario, where I’ve lived since 2017.
Looking upward, sunlight illuminated a canopy of long, sharp leaves. Against the sun, the waving ridges in each leaf glowed with golden, almost heavenly light.
Sheila often said: “I love animals more than most people.”
Racing to the fitting rooms, I’m confronted by the repeating pattern of my image reflected in an endless corridor of closed doors, shrinking in the distance.
“Not to minimize them but mass shootings are fairly paltry compared to the world’s greatest tragedies,” Mr. Khatri prompts, steering his students in a darker direction.
She is late. Eight days.
1968, the year I was born, eluded me for the longest time.