I suppose I can be forgiven for believing my brain might kill me, for failing to fulfill the prophecyof potential. Even with the shabby gifts of a scalpel and a torch. I know, you want the signpost ofbright plumage. You want to know who gets the beach house. Who gets stuck with the cat. Whatabout …
Mangoes ripening in a wicker basket—tough and green, you could skin themand eat them with salt. In the oven,the softening flesh of salmon,waiting to be pulled out and servedwith yellow grits and butter. My motherwas away when two visitors came knocking. What I can describe is the powder-bluechalk-outlined hopscotch box, beginningwith your first step off …