Review: Octavia Butler’s Bloodchild and Other Stories

The 2nd edition of Bloodchild and Other Stories is disturbing, odd, stimulating, magnificent, enlightening, and so, so well-written. This collection was a very pleasant surprise. I loved the dystopian stories for their unbridled, unsettling directness, but it was the generous afterwords for each story and the essays on the craft of writing and story-telling that made me catch my breath.

I’ve always loved Kindred and Parable of the Sower, but I hadn’t read Octavia Butler’s short stories or essays until recently. What a joy to have writing waiting to be discovered so it can change our outlook and perception. Two of the stories, Bloodchild and Speech Sounds are well-known award winners. The others also deserve worthy attention. With a reluctantly pessimistic attitude running through the stories, Butler forces us to confront compromise and hope in the face of vicious subjugation and loss. Whether it’s people with a violent genetic disease being institutionalized, the results of the loss of communication, or family trauma, survival with a shred of humanity intact is the hope. Butler leaves it up to the reader to grapple with whether it was achieved.

This second edition includes two new stories, Amnesty and The Book of Martha. Both demand a repeat read. Thought-provoking is an insulting compliment to the level of introspection and challenge both stories present their readers. Each story also makes it clear how Butler grappled with global and national issues as they evolved throughout her lifetime.

With echoes of Bloodchild, Amnesty confronts finding cooperation with violent, unconquerable colonizers from another world. Phrases like “cold comfort” and “sell out” feel appropriate. And yet…as more and more detail of Noah’s (the appropriately-named main character) experience is shared, readers will feel such labels are shallow responses to a complicated situation. (I’d love to see a comparison of Landscape with Invisible Hand and Amnesty.) The Book of Martha is more straightforward, but just as stressful as we are immersed in Martha’s god-like dilemma. She has been tasked – by God – with choosing one change to the world and its inhabitants that will cure humans of vices that cause them to treat each other, as well as flora and fauna, with callous indifference. The burden of power and control, unintended consequences, and the helplessness of free will all taunt Martha as she contemplates her options. Butler’s genius emerges once again as God, the only other character, becomes more and more like Martha as the conversations develop.

The two essays about writing, Positive Obsession and Furor Scribendi, are the elixir you need if you’re experiencing a block or have to dig deep to remember what you loved about writing — or your chosen art.

Positive Obsession is a narrative timeline of biographical anecdotes from Butler’s life. “Shyness is shit. It isn’t cute or feminine or appealing. It’s torment, and it’s shit” begins one section of the essay. Later, “When I was older, I decided that getting a rejection slip was like being told your child was ugly. You got mad and didn’t believe a word of it.” Butler remembers being unsure of whether she, as a Black child, is allowed in her local bookstore, and acknowledges being the only published Black woman science fiction writer she knows. “Positive Obsession,” Butler asserts, isn’t negotiable; it is dangerous, unstoppable. Finally, when discussing how science fiction stimulates creativity and gets readers “off the beaten track,” she ends with, “And what good is all this to Black people?”

Furor Scribendi is a short essay that lists steps to being a successful writer. She starts with read and ends with persists. In between is an emphasis on learning, critiquing, editing, and treating writing as a habit of perseverance. Butler makes it seem easy even as she explains how difficult it can be.

I can’t recommend this 2nd Edition of the collection highly enough.

Review of American Fiction: An Unsubtle, Meant-To-Be-Satire, Reality Film

I didn’t expect to laugh out loud while watching American Fiction, but I did. I thought I’d nod resolutely at the state of publishing and the public’s taste in literature. I thought I’d smirk knowingly, with a certain degree of condescension at white people trying too hard to be cool with Blackness. Instead, I recognized myself in some of the interactions. The white publicist who points out how to capitalize on Juneteenth sounded a little too much like me giving advice to friends about how to make the most out of white guilt.

Yikes. Ouch. Cringe. And so on.

Anyway, I laughed, and I squirmed. I became deeply invested in the characters, and I really wanted them to succeed — on their own terms. Thelonious Ellison, called Monk, has been simmering in frustration for a while when we meet him. And his academic and publishing brick walls inspire him to write a cathartic, meant-to-be-sarcastic, joke of a novel that embodies every trope and caricature of Black America he feels is lionized in popular culture. Before writing a word, he gives it the title My Pathology, and then quickly changes it to My Pafology, as he laughs to himself. In the theater I was in, the audience groaned each time Monk’s faith in how far white America was willing to bend to appear Diverse was proven naïve. Especially around the novel’s eventual title.

On the surface, American Fiction is an all-American story of an upper middle-class family with a family home, a beach house, college-educated kids (all three have the title of Dr.!), and a housekeeper who feels like family. Then the details start to emerge about divorces, job stumbles, money problems, drug addiction, debts, family rifts, miserable childhoods, a matriarch who is deteriorating in mind and body, and a sudden tragedy that rearranges family responsibilities.

The women in American Fiction are there to help Monk be a better man, but they are not static characters. His sister, his mother’s housekeeper, his mother, his literary foil, and his love interest all present challenges and opportunities to step up in various ways. They all have very different approaches to their realities and Monk’s place in his own.

Together the many characters and storylines provide Monk with a crucible to host an encapsulated identity crisis for a Black man in America. Monk, who claims to not see race early in the film, promotes his fake novel by pretending to be a felon on the run (who appreciates white wine). Breaking stereotypes while embodying them. Even the movie poster gets in on the image-busting with the adjusted finger tattoos. It’s all masterful.

One highlight was the scene when Monk is writing his novel. The characters “come to life” and break their own fourth wall by asking him why they said certain things or what happens next. Even as he writes a stereotypical book, his characters show they are more than the cardboard cutouts readers see. Another highlight sequence is the arc of sympathy, irritation, disbelief, and jubilation shown by Monk’s agent, as the joke-novel takes off and earns huge returns, both monetary and literary.

The ending, which might seem unsatisfying to some — like those of us who wanted Monk to succeed wholeheartedly on his own terms — felt open and expansive upon reflection. It was even hopeful in its personal interactions.

Highly recommended.

Review: The Testaments by Margaret Atwood

I put off reading THE TESTAMENTS until recently because, well, reality was a little too disturbing to suspend my disbelief enough to enjoy the novel. Also, The Handmaid’s Tale was always one of my favorite books, and the anticipation of disappointment was too much for me to risk.

Atwood creates a believable continuation of Offred’s story without it being too precious. The parallel stories of Aunt Lydia, Agnes, and Daisy have distinct voices and each creates sympathy and understanding for the experiences described — yes, even Aunt Lydia!

Especially interesting was the description of the early days of Gilead and how the “Sons of Jacob” rounded women up and controlled them — even managed to get them to perform horrific acts in the name of survival. Later, the delicate and stressful balance of power and betrayal gets the spotlight and shows us the background for how some of the incongruent aspects of Gilead exist.

As in The Handmaid’s Tale, Atwood’s world-building is detailed and immersive throughout The Testaments. The frame tale reappears to book-end the women’s stories in a conference setting, and there is even some reference to the former conference and we get a quick peek at the dynamics between various researchers and presenters.

Well worth the read for any fan of The Handmaid’s Tale.

Review: FRIENDS FOREVER by Shannon Hale and LeUyen Pham

FRIENDS FOREVER is the third graphic novel in the Real Friends trilogy. The graphic memoir continues with an 8th Grade Shannon finding her place in drama club with purpose and strong friendships. So why does she still feel anxious and sad? As with the other two “friends” books, Hale creates realistic scenes of anxiety triggered by insecurity and stress. The illustrations by LeUyen Pham are both enjoyable and effective at showing emotion and transitions.

Particularly relatable are the many times Shannon creates high expectations of how something is going to miraculously change her world for the better — a new hairstyle, a boyfriend, straight teeth — and shockingly the world stays the same. In fact, the world of an 8th grader gets more and more complicated as Shannon is seen more as a young adult rather than a child. Scenes showing sexual harassment (from a Santa!), forays into slow dances and “making out,” and taking responsibility for actions all feel appropriately cringey and miserable as well as survivable.

Hale perfectly re-creates the push and full of wanting to be like the crowd and not being sure you ARE like everyone else. Shannon’s anxiety about not being “good enough” in a religious sense and as a person adds internal pressure to the many external pressures she feels. Her attempts to be a better person are heartfelt, but temporary. Readers will recognize the futility in trying to be someone you are not. They will also realize that trying on different behaviors and identities is a part of growing up. FRIENDS FOREVER is highly recommended.

Review: Sunshine – A Graphic Novel by Jarrett J. Krosoczka

SUNSHINE is a graphic novel by Jarrett J. Krosoczka that focuses on his high school summer experience working at a summer camp for children with terminal illnesses: Camp Sunshine. At once uplifting and heartbreaking, it takes a teenage Jarrett through the camp experience and beyond where he learns to navigate discomfort, insecurity, responsibility, love, and grief. 

Similar to Hey, Kiddo in its direct and caring style, Krosoczka manages to draw readers close to experience truly difficult emotions with reassuring comfort. Especially great for teens and young adults is the assertion that the summer experience had profound and positive effects on Krosoczka’s life. It’s a needed balance to the “whatever” attitude we see from teens and adults these days. 

Woven into the story is typical family and classmate dynamics, teen attitudes towards “corny” fun, and many warm interactions between campers, counselors, and friends. Also appreciated is the perspective of seeing the world as larger (or smaller) than just your own experiences. Both the joys and the frustrations are realistic, but the backdrop of interacting with terminally ill children and their families puts a more empathetic light on each scene. Heartwarming and tender, SUNSHINE is a substantial and enjoyable summer read.

Highly recommended!

Review: BODY GRAMMAR by Jules Ohman

BODY GRAMMAR, a debut novel from Jules Ohman, is an engrossing mix of light and dark. The story centers on Lou, a thoughtful and sensitive Queer teen who is used to modeling scouts approaching her for her unusual, androgynous features. While much of the conflict is wrapped up in unrequited love, teenage tragedy, coming of age both sexually and emotionally, the backdrop of glamour and grit create a unique balance that both surprises and excites the reader. Not a light read, Body Grammar will suck you in and urge you to root for the characters, even when they frustrate you.

Lou navigates her guilt and grief following a tragedy at the beginning of the novel, as do her friends. The loss pushes Lou to switch up her “plan,” and jump into modeling with a “Why the hell not?” attitude. The dialogue feels natural and the characters are varied, fully developed, and diverse in personality, background, and motivations. Ohman creates a world where Queerness is a given and characters handle sex with authenticity and joy, most of the time.

BODY GRAMMAR takes place over a year, but it feels a lot longer because it embraces “jet set” in all ways. I sometimes flipped back a few pages to reassure myself there hadn’t been a time skip of substance that I’d missed. Readers will enjoy the immersion into the modeling world balanced with the honesty in Lou’s emotional journey. Another balance is several laugh out loud moments and some truly heartbreaking choices. Just like life.

Readers will enjoy Lou’s journey, and I think it will satisfy both cynics and romantics by the end.

Highly recommended.

Summer Quicktake Reviews

Whether it’s on a beach, on a bus, or sitting on a shady bench, it’s almost summer reading time. Here are a few suggestions for summer reads as we approach Memorial Day Weekend: Read More!

Mecca Jamillah Sullivan’s BIG GIRL is powerful and beautiful in turns. It confronts racism, body politics and confidence, queerness, and family dynamics with deep empathy and high expectations for characters. This novel can be supremely uncomfortable in many of the scenes. And that’s part of what makes it so good.

The book follows Malaya from about 8 years old to her teenage years as she works on how to deal with her body and how to take up space. What I love about the approach in this novel is that it doesn’t stop with the easy option of just pushing Malaya to TAKE UP SPACE; we see how she does the harder work of becoming confident and effective in creating her own place. The story of Big Girl is the story of how Malaya learns to do that in the midst of exploring desire for food, sex, friendship, and all the fraught aspects of adolescence.

Some particularly relatable scenes were in dressing rooms, being encouraged in a discouraging way by a salesperson. Another is when Malaya is inspired by a Zora Neale Hurston quotation that celebrates bigness: “A thing is mighty big when time and distance cannot shrink it.” The conflicting methods Malaya’s parents use to show attention around food, whether withholding or gifting, are also recognizable and painful. Big Girl confronts sexuality, society’s body complexes, racism, queer-phobia, and so much more.

Curtis Sittenfeld’s PREP is an oldie but goodie. I’d never read it before this spring, but I immediately understood why it has had a long life. It’s still relevant, and boy does it make readers remember what it was like to be in high school. Sittenfeld manages to infuse all those cringey moments with empathy, even as the main character, Lee, may not appeal to everyone.

Readers follow Lee Fiora as she enters a residential prep school on scholarship. Over and over, the fish-out-of-water story seems to take one turn and then takes another. Will Lee become friends with another outsider to conquer the school? Nope. Multiple nopes, actually. Will Lee make the safer choice that will help her get a leg up on the social ladder? Nope. But not because she didn’t try. It’s a frustrating and sympathetic journey throughout.

I appreciated the complex storyline and that there weren’t quick fixes for Lee’s foibles and occasionally un-PC commentary and uncomfortable crushes and bad choices…which we all made in high school. Class, race, friendship, sex, and so much more come together to create a teenage cringefest.

Abi Daré’s THE GIRL WITH THE LOUDING VOICE is a delight. The storyline is compelling, following Adunni, a 14-year-old Nigerian girl who wants an education. Her mother has recently passed away, and her father has married her off to a much older man to help the family with money. Her heartbreak is that she will no longer be able to attend school once she’s married. Among other things! Adunni ends up running away from the marriage after a misunderstanding that threatens her life.

After she is placed with a family as a housemaid as a way to hide away, the novel gets into what inspired its writing: the abusive treatement of young housemaids in prosperous households. The narrator’s voice is in Adunni’s English, which she is still learning. And while it can take a few pages to read smoothly, it helps round out her character and her life’s focus of education.

Adunni is one of the most likable and well-rounded characters in recent literature. Daré has created an inspirational combination of curiosity, persistence, strength, and vulnerability in this young character. Readers will be cheering for her and crying with her as the story unfolds. Highly recommended!

What is on YOUR summer reading list?

Keeping Myself Accountable: Writing From Art

I’m not the most disciplined person when it comes to writing for myself. That’s why the very affordable Adult School classes are my jam right now. This week, I took a one-session class with the same instructor, Marian Calabro, who led the Memoir of Geography class from last month. Today’s class was Writing From Art. It was a delight. We started with responding to an image of The Mona Lisa. Then we had a choice of several images from a batch of artwork. We were also given photos of mosaics. And finally we did a flash response to a crayon exercise. The two hours flew by, and my admiration of the writers grew. As I explained in the last few posts, I am posting the (very raw) responses here to keep myself accountable. I guess I’m motivated extrinsically when it comes to my writing.

Prompt: Respond to a reproduction of The Mona Lisa (10 minutes)

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/11/06/arts/design/mona-lisa-louvre-overcrowding.html

Mona Lisa’s smile is judging you. Coldly, she holds in her rage with a steel borne of necessity and the fates’ whims. Her plausible deniability is what keeps her sane — and the drive to stay strong holds mouth steady.

With the curtains drawn, her chin wrinkles and her lips may quiver. She turns away, leaning over the kitchen sink as the water runs over the day’s dishes. The smile, admired by so many as tantalizing and mysterious, pulls into a gaping, open sore. Inside she is screaming with the furies, raging against the canvas, hating those who come to gawk and fawn, cursing the painter and his assistant.

Prompt: Steig Illustration (15 minutes) and Magritte Painting (5 minutes)

William Steig, illustration

The men fit together tightly, neatly, blending their muted colors. Being seen takes work. Crowding into the picture isn’t enough when everyone has the same goal. Looking directly into the distance worked for more, but two chose to defy logic and face left.

Curving into his neighbor, one gazes up, content with the nearness, the closeness. His smile is true as he breathes in the air of his companion’s nape. The other rebel has different motivations. Turned away could be interpreted as error, but upside down is intentional. His declaration is a flounce before his exit. His defiance is permanent.

The others, focused on being a part of the group, continue to star straight ahead. Unbothered, or perhaps unable to understand, they relax into the tightness, breathing with a slightly wider measure of comfort.

Réne Magritte, Flame

The trees are not lungs, but they help me breathe all the same. Each threaded branch leads oxygen to my heart, to my gut, to my brain. The fiery leaves on one side are painful, pure, hot. The coolness of the green calms the fury, allowing me to greet each day. Again. And Again.

In the background, smudged and blended and riotous, the past waits for today’s fire and coolness to arrive.

Prompt: Mosaic from Piazza Armerina

Even the monsters roll their eyes at the attempted drama of the chase. When the extraordinary becomes a bore, it’s time to end the charade. Muscle memory takes over, an arm raises and falls, eyelids droop without a hint of alarm or passion, backs limp into seats, a yawn escapes as the hero is conquered with a shrug.

Prompt: Broken Crayon (2 minutes)

The intentional destruction of a childhood utensil hurts. When a crayon breaks from use, the purpose soaks up the blame. But now, it’s on me.

Holding Myself Accountable: 3rd Memoir Writing Class

Our final (of three) “Geography of Memoir” writing class began with a statement from Marian Calabro, our instructor. She discussed how writing is a lifeline, and that this class had certainly been one for her these past few weeks. I felt that deeply. I won’t get into the details, but she shared a lot, including this lovely quotation: “My gift to you is the rest of your life.” Truly precious.

We were given an excerpt from George Hodgman’s Bettyville to read, and a section that dealt with the highway in particular, including its impression on George. I need to go back and read the memoir in its entirety. From what Calabro told us, it was written in posts via Facebook. Modern. The prompt we were given was highways and cars. We were also sent Laurie Colwin’s wonderful “Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant” to read. As you might guess, the second place prompt was: A kitchen.

I really enjoyed this class and its participants. It was both fun and inspiring. I definitely recommend checking out the Adult School offerings as affordable and long-term commitment free options: Adult School of Montclair.

Highways and Cars: Subaru in an Ice Storm (15 minutes)

Thanksgiving meant a car ride in the white Subaru purchased from the display pedestal because it was a bargain. We were picked up on Wednesday at Noon — no skipping school — and zipped straight to the highway. Within an hour, not even out of Massachusetts, we stopped to pee. The side of the road felt sheltered enough with car doors ajar. Only when a truck barreled past, shaking the ground, did we feel exposed, vulnerable, too young yet to feel ashamed.

The eight hours to Pittsburgh, nine with stops to eat tinfoil wrapped sandwiches at rest stops with rickety tables, were filled with license plates, 20 questions, stories, I SPY, and bickering. So much sibling bickering. My parents rarely interrupted us unless we said “shut up” or called each other stupid. These were verboten words, and they brought the rare times my father showed anger.

The year of the ice storm made the return trip different from the start. We kids didn’t know why tension hung over the car or why the sky darkened. We snipped and pushed and squealed as usual, fueled by double the desserts we usually enjoyed. The crescendo of squabbling rose until the car thundered with DONNERWETTERNOCHMAL and we suddenly found ourselves stopped on the side of the highway. My father’s anger dragged him out of the car and we shrank under the seats waiting to be spanked.

We weren’t. My father rarely spanked us. But we were sure this time was it. Instead, the tongue-lashing ensured our silence. We sensed something more frightening under the anger.

Soon, still silent, the Subaru pushed forward, swaying in gusts of wind and squinting through the icy rain, later the heavy, wet snow. It was fear, I now know. Fear was under the anger driving the car. Fear decided to slice through the non-stop drive. Fear swallowed its pride and stopped at an inn in a small town off the highway. Fear waited in the lobby only to be told every corner was filled.

It was also fear that accepted the offer from a stranger to let this family with accents and three small children to stay in the basement for a fee. The fear in my father never transferred to we three children. We were on cots and in a strange basement; it was an adventure with the promise of missing an extra day of school.

A kitchen: The Kids’ Table (10 minutes)

The table was more of a glorified counter, growing out of the kitchen cabinet like a defiant shrug of a shoulder. Tomato-red, it served well for snack time and lunch time and breakfast time. Really for any meal when the kids and I were eating alone. Washable, the spills and crumbs washed easily away, no joints or crevices to hide in.

Settled far enough from the stove, but within an arm’s reach in every direction, I could cook or clean or work – making do at both house and life within sight of the toddlers. I imagined the kids doing homework and chugging sodas at the kitchen table in a faraway future.

It had to go, of course. A kitchen re-do was a requirement, and black and white and silver are the signal of modern and new. Tomato-red, shoulder-shrug tables don’t fit into visions of progress. Tables that clean easily and chip at the edges don’t impress people who ask to see your new kitchen.

The crumbs and spills of childhood and teenage years now collect between the varnished planks of wood that make up the too-large dining room table I thought would make our house feel more farmhouse homey. But it’s too big for just me and the kids. The cabinets of the white and silver and black kitchen are too high for me. The shelves are more than half empty. As per modern regulation, there are outlets every six inches; all but one goes unused. One of the subway tiles behind the stove has a tiny, mysterious chip that appeared soon after the kitchen was finished.

The kitchen looks like progress, I guess.

Holding Myself Accountable: 2nd Memoir Writing Class

Listening to other people’s responses to prompts is inspiring. Astounding, really. And I mean really listening. Over zoom it’s easy to glance at a phone or have another window open. We all like to pretend that we can multitask, but it’s a weak echo, a shadow, of being present. And I’m as guilty of shadow-tasking as anyone else. But when I listened to my fellow memoir writing students read their pieces, it moved me. It was at once intimidating and encouraging. And forcing myself to read my own pieces lightened the fierce criticism of my writing.

This week, several of the class members, including me, didn’t feel confident in the writing outcomes. And for the second prompt, several of us never even made it to the door in our stories. I added some lines to allow for a more complete piece. Here are the free-writing pieces we did this week.

A place I didn’t expect to live: Spain

It happened suddenly, perhaps desperately. It happened because of a truth gift-wrapped in a lie. It happened because I was tired. The well-planned rashness excited my more mature colleagues and shock friend who were building careers with the promise of bonuses thick with stock dividends or ego-bolstering awards in the arts.

Kars4Kids got the Hyundai, my roommate’s friend got the sublet, and I got a backpack with wheels and a pullout handle from my practical and envious fellow teachers.

I have no memory of the plane ride, or of being met at the airport. I remember the scorching, blinding sun in March. I remember my first “movil” — and being terrified to answer it. I remember shopping for pomelos and zanahorias.

It became a rut. I recreated wheat I had left. I taught English to children younger than my high school students. I taught English to adults hoping to speak the language of business. It wasn’t fulfilling or fun. Still, I wasn’t tired.

I did many things during my time in Granada. I learned Sevillanas and performed them on stage. I made friends from all over the world. I explored the Sierra Nevada, learning about homes in caves, enjoying miel y nueces against the backdrop of the Alahambra. But they were punctuations that felt like an attempt at vacation, not life. My memories shimmer with haze, as if I’m trying to fill in details of a half-remembered dream.

When I was told to leave, when I arranged to come home to Brooklyn, when I knew I was returning to the exhausting fulfillment of high school teaching, when my journey had a deadline, I began to see my surroundings with wonder once again. The sharpness of breathing deeply in the Museo Picasso. The clarity of the columns in Córdoba. The bustle of the tight walkways of the Albaicín. Once I shook off the Spaniard’s spell, I allowed myself to fall in love with the place.

A gate or door that holds meaning for you: Secret Garden

At the time, I was living in a basement room at the bottom of a spiral staircase. The windowless square had a half-bath, but no door. The rent was affordable, and we three shared the cleaning and utilities. It was fine, but it was dark. The glow from my black and white television worked overtime, but it was dark.

To escape the dark — and my roommates — I took folders of papers to grade to a small cafe often enough to become known to the owner and other patrons escaping the dark in their own homes. It was in this cafe, with essays about Nora’s selfishness or self-preservation, depending on how students had read Ibsen, that I was invited into Paradise on a trial basis.

On one of the first sunny days in a week, the cafe owner, a charismatic oddball just this side of worrisome, startled the three of us settled into sipping and reading, with the announcement that he was closing up, and he wanted us to come home with him.

There may have been furtive, questioning glances, but we all ended up making awkward conversation along the two blocks across Court Street to the sunken entrance of a less-than-pristine brownstone. Ducking down to pass through the entryway, I wondered if I was making a final decision; Law & Order was at its height then. And while I said yes to a cup of tea, I didn’t drink it yet. Not even a sip.

The living room was dark, crowded with books, cluttered with papers and wooden trinkets. Floor to ceiling shelves seemed to absorb sound, light, and energy. We were ushered through the room without a chance to explore, and as we turned the corner, sunlight surrounded us and pulled us through the open French doors.

I felt like Mary Lennox discovering Burnett’s Secret Garden. I am sure I gasped. Flowers bloomed along a brick wall, in mosaic pots, on a Rose of Sharon. Green invaded every corner in shades I’d never imagined could exist in a concrete square. Tiny tables with just enough room for a mug and a book were scattered about, waiting for their turn to be flooded with the sun’s brightness.

Something about the sanitizing effects of the light-filled garden relaxed us. We spent the afternoon drinking tea we had deemed safe and chatting about the wonders of urban gardens. Somehow, none of us was envious, just appreciative for the gift of the visit. The dreamlike day felt impossibly long, both fragile and powerful. One of us, the tarot card connoisseur, may have used the word mystical.

Ever thoughtful guests, we left together when our host didn’t refill the kettle – a subtle hint. The light was fading anyway, the magic with it.

The cafe was still a refuge from the dark for years to come, but a second invitation to the garden never arrived. After a time, I began to doubt that the afternoon had been real. After a time, I was afraid to mention the garden visit. I wanted to avoid tarnishing a bright memory with the darkness of accuracy.