“Where is he—you know, the . . . one?”
my ninety-year-old friend asked
and I knew that she meant her son—
which is more than I can for this painting
of a playground, which doesn’t even resemble
one, wher…
“Where is he—you know, the . . . one?”
my ninety-year-old friend asked
and I knew that she meant her son—
which is more than I can for this painting
of a playground, which doesn’t even resemble
one, wher…
Rachel Cusk photo courtesy the author.
Subscribe for free: Stitcher | Apple Podcasts | Google Play