A Letter to My Younger Sister
I thought I was somehow exempt—because I grew up in other countries or have Jewish blood or have a sister who looks different than me.
I thought I was somehow exempt—because I grew up in other countries or have Jewish blood or have a sister who looks different than me.
It’s safe to say that the reading for religion majors lacks the representation of the diversity of the religious world.
Technically my third home, but my memories begin here.
But I will often retrace the roads and words I’ve taken and exhale, exultant.
The laughter flowed freely, as if the devastation of the last few days had dammed it up until it burst from us all at once.
Looking around the space, a constellation of memories appear.
Seven years later, I am now in Grand Rapids again, which is a kind of beautiful, full-circle moment.
The house is, by nature, transient.
Under the Madison Street bridge, the tree that grows sideways suddenly popped flowers that smelled like corn tortillas.
There are no miscalculations or extraneous details—things are only borrowed or loaned between neighbors.