Photo by Steve Heap / Shutterstock.com My hometown has suspicioustaste in communal art: there is a rollercoaster by the river—the one that flooded its banks in 2010, whichno one remembers unless you were there; unlessyou felt water pouring two days straight and...
Photo: Paul Ruta You can see them from the highway but you have to look. They seem black in the distance, backlit in winter by the low Amarillo sun. We pull over and we’re the only ones here. It’s colder than Texas is supposed to be and I zip my jacket against the...
We stepped beyond the museum,a sinking cabin with weeds webbing between the splintered logs,as though they had every right to exist;an iron pump rusting beside a butter churn,a pushpin thrust into the spongy ground.This was once someone’s home. Stones snapping beneath...
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...
