Essays

April 7, 2017

Raze a house, and you rip out all the things it held: every cross or kind word uttered; every game of Candy Land and Crazy Eights ever played. You suck out all traces of steam left from hot bowls of oatmeal, silence the tender words whispered in a dying man’s last days.

March 17, 2017

By now I’ve largely forgiven myself for these assumptions, which I remind myself are unbecomingly American.

January 13, 2017

You'd acquiesced to discontent—as so many of us will have to.

Nepal Hill village

December 2, 2016

The rain came right on time that day, at tea time, driven hard on a blustery wind. I quickly closed the shutters to keep out the wet. The first big, noisy raindrops struck the house like hard pellets, before slacking off to a steady drizzle. 

September 10, 2016

I carried the book with me, consulting it the way other eager travelers consult a Fodor's or Lonely Planet, or maybe the way a pilgrim consults a spiritual guide. 

Photo by Flickr user Neiljs

July 11, 2016

My husband’s nemesis is a taxi driver who is always parked at the end of our block. He has a luxury vehicle, an old Mercedes, which looks out of place on these long-neglected, pocky streets.

Photo by author

March 3, 2016

When I enter the Merrill apartment, it feels like another world. . . Ouija room to the left, Merrill’s study and library hidden behind the sliding bookcases to my right.

Photo by author

November 27, 2015

While she describes the elk as female, a cow, I’m still seeing a bull’s antlers crashing through the windshield, her body flailing as the truck rolls on its side and skids to a stop.

September 19, 2015

Each page marks a point in time where I or someone said, you should make thisOr perhaps more precisely, here, go, make.

Photo by Flickr Creative Commons user Oliphant

September 8, 2015

In Kathmandu, with money comes the right to fence a yard and cultivate a bit of nature against the city. . . . They were little oases, while the nearby roads were harsh realities.

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