Some years before, I had moved to a coastal town thinking that fortune smiled on writers in picturesque places.
Wandering endless bleached earth.
My father’s funeral was on a Tuesday, on my mother’s birthday.
“You’re late, Isaac.”
At five o’clock that morning, like he had done every morning, Ibrahim Delgado woke to the sound of screeching roosters.
Illustration by Andres Garzon “I kept thinking how marvelous it would be if I could somehow tear […]
Illustration by Andres Garzon We were about 500 kilometers from Thunder Bay when I had something of […]