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Monday, July 17, 2006


The boy was maybe thirteen, all knees and elbows and pale, upturned nose, and his older sister waited with him in the snaking security line.

She couldn't accompany him past the checkpoint, they told him. Only ticketed passengers allowed. His lip wobbled, though he tried to hide it, and he told her he loved her before she turned away.

Without warning, I found myself crushed by the force of centuries of maternal instinct. In that moment I would have gladly abandoned my flight, my plans, my career, to follow him and make sure he reached his destination safely.

Thursday, July 13, 2006


The boy puffed out his bare chest in the darkness. He played, shoeless, in the black puddles of the parking lot. There was no one watching over him.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006


To her, life is an emergency. She is frantic, dramatic, last-minute. Every day is a crisis, every task of utmost priority. Nothing is planned, everything is scattered. The drama is exhausting and suffocating.

Every day, more and more, I brace myself for her arrival.