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Today, Cheryl is five: The number is startling, a near impossibility. Last night, roosting in her nest of unraveled mittens, in the stone alcove under the metro’s vaulted ceiling, Cheryl had considered her age with pride. Five! Most urban-dwelling pigeons didn’t live past the tender age of two. Both her parents had died when she …

I dropped into my father’s casketa faded photoin which he stood on a beach, ankle deepin an ocean wave, lifting a child.He swung me high into morning.My bucket hat flew from my head,landing in a moat circling a fortressmolded from sand and store-boughtconch shells.His powdered face at restless beautiful than his surprisewhen milk for our …

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