“You’re late, Isaac.”
Halloween night 1955: a Volkswagen Beetle hit nine-year-old Erika on Decarie Boulevard, corner Monkland Avenue. Notre-Dame-de-Grâce borough.
In my grandmother’s garden there was a stunted, knuckled tree near a ramshackle bomb shelter, a sheet of corrugated iron curved over a shallow hole.
We are a human mass surging up London’s Primrose Hill in the chilly dark. Behind is, our ordinary […]
The summer I turned ten was filled with church bells and local choirs singing the town’s sorrows.
Tom has been waking up the last few days with a sense of dread.