Two months after my father dies, his older brother Silvio—who my father cherished and promised to take care of after their father died, who looks like my father, and laughs like him—gets married at age 86.
Searching for Silvio
Eavesdropping in a Panera Bread
I rarely write in coffee shops. I prefer the privacy of working at home, where I can protect my anonymity as an unpublished author; I don’t want other café patrons to observe me as I struggle to write.
To Tell the Truth
When my real mother dies, I go looking for another one. The Catholic Charities counselor’s word for this other mother I want, after decades, to find is “biological”. Illegitimate is another word for people who end up like me. It’s what I feel now: unlawful, unauthorized, unwarranted here in this office that smells like antiseptic and rubber gloves, hot teeth drilled down to bone.