My husband Dima rattled his keys in the locked side door to our kitchen. With a sharp intake of breath, our two-year-old exclaimed, “Daddy!” I smiled with the sound of his childish zeal. Giggles rang like bells as little Vitka toddled to the stairwell. The cottony feel of his flushed cheek, the silken brush of his hair—I could nearly feel these things as he pressed against his father. I closed my eyes and leaned against the futon. more »

I have never been able to stand yards, those tiny cramped plots of grass guarded over by the windows of neighbors. At seven I realized most of my mother’s omniscience was in fact simply the work of an elaborate network… more »

To get away from our apartment, sometimes I’d go to the Museum of Natural History, where it always seemed to be late afternoon. I especially liked the dioramas, the gravely dignified animals posed in forests full of faded autumn leaves. And sometimes when one of the rooms would be briefly lit up by a few rays of sunshine, the amber light would make me think of Ellen Stern. And more »

During a short visit to New York City several years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. more »

At two in the morning in early June, a bird fell out of the tree across the street. Pumpkin was on the porch having a cigar. He saw the whole thing. The bird fell, bounced off the hood of a red station wagon, and flopped, squawking, into the street. A stray cat happened to be wandering past; it approached the black bundle, now quiet, sniffed it, and walked away. The bird gave no sign of life. It lay in the street, unmoving. Pumpkin smoked. more »

I don’t remember when I started to read. I don’t remember much at all, really. The story goes, I’m told, like this: my thirty-year-old mother was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and two weeks later was in a wheelchair. A couple of months later, she went into the nursing home. I don’t remember this. I don’t remember her. And I don’t remember when I learned to read. I suppose reading was this. When she went away, my father said I never stopped playing. I never stopped, never... more »

Public libraries threaten the institution of private property. It is inherently dangerous to propagate the idea that all citizens should share books, and that books are not commodities. If we cannot think of books as commodities, we are in danger of thinking the same way about telecommunications, hydro, health care, land, water, and even food. more »

Piece temporarily removed. more »

One of the twins puts a donut hole in her mouth. She grips it between her thumb and index finger and licks the powdered sugar off the other side, her tiny pink tongue leaving clearings of saliva in its wake. Sugar coats her lips. Her brown eyes fix on a spot somewhere over my head, as if she’s pondering something important. Then she shifts her gaze to me and smiles. She removes the damp lump of dough from her mouth and hurls it at my head. more »