Nothing is Missing
Arranged beauty, a vanishing self. Silent guns in the corner reveal an…
Read more →Love letters once. Father's attic held stained books, raw lives. Now, strange children's stories bloom.
In the old days,
every novel carried the same plots and characters—
you could open any page
and read it as a love letter.
In those novels, you found yourself,
paused between time and history.
Once, I walked into my father’s attic.
Novels in my language—oddly shaped, stained—
lay scattered on the floor.
There were stories—only stories—
the slow burn of my mother’s arthritic silence,
and unmarried girls eloping with thieves and thugs.
I gathered some of his favorite books into a pile
and rolled over them out of sheer joy.
The next day I found a young woman’s red shoelaces in my locker.
These days people read only graphic novels,
but I have rediscovered children’s stories—
strange, and alive.