Photo by Deensel, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons The minute he saw the picture of Praza do Comercio, the square acknowledging the sea with elegance worth empires, he felt Lisbon’s call. There was nothing left for him in his own country: work or identity. Like...
We enter a palace room for a second time, the one where stags holdsome of my ancestors’ names. So many mouths, some little flies. Camera catch the pitch of my smug.You try not to spout. My wet crest. The stags on a ceiling of gilded pens. So a lens under my chin makes...
On our last day in Lisbon, he wanted to find an Irish bar so that we could go and watch some rugby match that was on, but we were supposed to be learning to communicate, and like the therapist said, he was supposed to be listening to me and also hearing me. So when I...
