morning.
He remembers remembering, a surge in his stomach, reaching out for the cat. The cat is gone.
He remembers his bare toes touching the cold floor, how once it would be followed by a warm hand on the back of his neck.
He remembers the empty drawers, one less toothbrush, and the extra set of keys taking up space in his loose change bowl.
READER
East Indian male, 40s, with shaved head, wearing black wool coat, collar up, and blue striped scarf.
I Remember
Joe Brainard
(Granary Books, 2001)
p 117
Undertow
Breakfast was strawberry Pop Tarts. The boy and Uncle sat in the kitchen blowing on the filling, rolling the toasted pastry around in their mouths. Uncle threw his down on the paper towel, switching it out for coffee. The boy walked his fingers across the table and grabbed the leftover, holding it to his chest like he was planning to store it for the long season ahead. Uncle straightened to scold him, but the boy had started nipping away at the tart like a beast, revelling in his tiny victory.
He saw a glimpse of the boyâs mother in those mischievous eyes.
He recalled living on the beach when they were young. His mother had called it a vacation, a summer down by the lake, but theyâd lost their home and Mother was ill. Heâd gone out into the surf, far too far, his sisterâs job to make sure he didnât go astray, but he giggled, wading further. A succession of waves had come in and he struggled to stay above water, sucked under and spit out, over and again, scanning the shore each time he broke the surface.
She would come get him. His sister would come get him.
When he finally came ashore safe, his sister was standing by the tent, their mother inside, fading, her eyes as murky as the lake water. His sister would raise him.
Uncle caught himself glaring at the boy. Lord in heaven, he thought. Please donât let the kid have it too.
READER
Caucasian male, mid-40s, with wide part in greying hair, wearing worn leather motorcycle jacket, black jeans, and brown hiking boots.
The Inheritance of Loss
Kiran Desai
(Penguin Canada, 2006)
p 56
Cherry Tree
Itâs late afternoon, almost time for dinner. She dangles a bottle of cream soda beside her, out of sight of her nearby daughter who plays beside the barn. She doesnât usually like carbonated beverages â cream soda is her daughterâs treat â but she could use one now, something unexpected.
She acknowledges her neighbour, walking over from the next farm. She rents out all the land to him for cattle. She only wanted the barn. She raises her eyebrows in the direction of whatâs left of the cherry tree newly planted in memory of her late husband. Today, the bull arrived and she and her daughter stood near the electric fence to see which cow he would pick. He picked the cherry tree.
The neighbour inspects the treeâs trunk, hopeful thereâs something he might do to make it better. Instead he nods and shrugs. She shrugs too. What can you do? He starts toward the porch, scratches the inside of his forearm. But then he thinks better of it, crossing back over the long field home, minding he doesnât lose his footing in a gopher hole.
Beside the barn, her daughter lies on the bench, legs up, arms outstretched, eyes shut, imagining what it would be like to fall through the clouds with no parachute, no place to land.
READER
Black female, early 30s, wearing sleek, long coat, high boots, and black-framed glasses.
The Perfect Circle
Pascale Quiviger
Translated by Sheila Fischman
(Cormorant Books, 2006)
p 70
Girlâs Dorm
She wakes up on her half of the twin bed. The dorm room sways with each tilt of her head. The roommate came in at some point, she remembers now, then left.
She pulls herself up against the wall and surveys the room in light, a
Rolling Stone
tear of Sinead OâConnor thumbtacked to the wall, curling at the edges. Balls of clothes, some of them hers.
The girl beside her is
He remembers remembering, a surge in his stomach, reaching out for the cat. The cat is gone.
He remembers his bare toes touching the cold floor, how once it would be followed by a warm hand on the back of his neck.
He remembers the empty drawers, one less toothbrush, and the extra set of keys taking up space in his loose change bowl.
READER
East Indian male, 40s, with shaved head, wearing black wool coat, collar up, and blue striped scarf.
I Remember
Joe Brainard
(Granary Books, 2001)
p 117
Undertow
Breakfast was strawberry Pop Tarts. The boy and Uncle sat in the kitchen blowing on the filling, rolling the toasted pastry around in their mouths. Uncle threw his down on the paper towel, switching it out for coffee. The boy walked his fingers across the table and grabbed the leftover, holding it to his chest like he was planning to store it for the long season ahead. Uncle straightened to scold him, but the boy had started nipping away at the tart like a beast, revelling in his tiny victory.
He saw a glimpse of the boyâs mother in those mischievous eyes.
He recalled living on the beach when they were young. His mother had called it a vacation, a summer down by the lake, but theyâd lost their home and Mother was ill. Heâd gone out into the surf, far too far, his sisterâs job to make sure he didnât go astray, but he giggled, wading further. A succession of waves had come in and he struggled to stay above water, sucked under and spit out, over and again, scanning the shore each time he broke the surface.
She would come get him. His sister would come get him.
When he finally came ashore safe, his sister was standing by the tent, their mother inside, fading, her eyes as murky as the lake water. His sister would raise him.
Uncle caught himself glaring at the boy. Lord in heaven, he thought. Please donât let the kid have it too.
READER
Caucasian male, mid-40s, with wide part in greying hair, wearing worn leather motorcycle jacket, black jeans, and brown hiking boots.
The Inheritance of Loss
Kiran Desai
(Penguin Canada, 2006)
p 56
Cherry Tree
Itâs late afternoon, almost time for dinner. She dangles a bottle of cream soda beside her, out of sight of her nearby daughter who plays beside the barn. She doesnât usually like carbonated beverages â cream soda is her daughterâs treat â but she could use one now, something unexpected.
She acknowledges her neighbour, walking over from the next farm. She rents out all the land to him for cattle. She only wanted the barn. She raises her eyebrows in the direction of whatâs left of the cherry tree newly planted in memory of her late husband. Today, the bull arrived and she and her daughter stood near the electric fence to see which cow he would pick. He picked the cherry tree.
The neighbour inspects the treeâs trunk, hopeful thereâs something he might do to make it better. Instead he nods and shrugs. She shrugs too. What can you do? He starts toward the porch, scratches the inside of his forearm. But then he thinks better of it, crossing back over the long field home, minding he doesnât lose his footing in a gopher hole.
Beside the barn, her daughter lies on the bench, legs up, arms outstretched, eyes shut, imagining what it would be like to fall through the clouds with no parachute, no place to land.
READER
Black female, early 30s, wearing sleek, long coat, high boots, and black-framed glasses.
The Perfect Circle
Pascale Quiviger
Translated by Sheila Fischman
(Cormorant Books, 2006)
p 70
Girlâs Dorm
She wakes up on her half of the twin bed. The dorm room sways with each tilt of her head. The roommate came in at some point, she remembers now, then left.
She pulls herself up against the wall and surveys the room in light, a
Rolling Stone
tear of Sinead OâConnor thumbtacked to the wall, curling at the edges. Balls of clothes, some of them hers.
The girl beside her is
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