Category: Creative Nonfiction

I keep my hands to myself. It makes things easier. I pull my elbows in tight, cross my arms over my body, and take up as little space as I can. Everything I need, I carry with my own limbs, and I don’t have to worry about overstepping bounds if I never step outside of my own personal bubble.

Every September, my husband Dan watches the US Open.  Broadcast live from Flushing Meadows, Queens, where I have roots, it takes place on the former grounds of the 1964-65 New York World's Fair.  I've never latched onto tennis, but I'll often watch for a few minutes, waiting for the inevitable shot of the Unisphere so I can make my annual comment, “I saw that with my family at the World's Fair.”

The house we lived in was a remodeled barn. It felt more like a barn than a home. We were the animals.

After missing my connection in Dallas, I am told by Greyhound staff that sleeping in the station is not permitted. So, I book a room at a motel that is relatively close to the station and reasonably priced. Half hour later, my Lyft driver pulls into the parking lot of the motel, looks into the rearview mirror.

Young lady, you really want me to drop you off here?

The following morning, Klink seemed totally fine, hopping about in the sunshine. He apparently had already forgotten the events of the preceding night. I told myself, “It was nothing.” Still, I couldn’t shake the thought that I didn’t know where Klink had come from, nor the unsettling feeling that maybe sometimes in that birdcage, he wasn’t alone.

We were on the corner of Essex Street and Delancey, across the street from the old Essex Street Retail Market. It was still open for business, though from the outside it looked half derelict and definitely dicey. I could see my aunt staring at the large sign on the side of the building; she was obviously trying to read it, to make sense of the words.