I was ten when Lucy and her family moved in next door. It was winter and although I had seen her, we hadn't really been able to play together. She went to public school where my father was a teacher and I went to St. Augustine’s, the Catholic parish school. We didn't get together until summer. I asked her to take a walk. I always walked then; in the summer I often walked ten miles or so a day. Our street was a dead-end and stopped two doors up with the McKay's house. It was quiet and there were woods and empty fields nearby. I wandered everywhere unafraid. Lucy's mother, Marta D'Angelo, wouldn't allow Lucy to walk in the woods or the fields unless an adult was present. My parents didn't care. The only rules were that I should be home for meals, do all my homework and help around the house when asked.
I'm afraid to talk about the Goddess. God, the big patriarchal male God will strike me down. This depiction of God the Father is from the Sistine Chapel.
Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,
This is the first chapter of a memoir covering my mother’s death and two years I spent in Burma. The year is 1969.
Chapter 1, Coming Home
Bangkok. It is the smell of it that differentiates it from other Asian cities. No other city smells quite like this. The scent engulfs me as I walk down the steps from the plane and lays languid in the humidity of the damp silk air, diffused through droplets of water that never seem to dry in the sun, a moist welcoming perfume, an oriental goddess opening
Mattie arrives unannounced wearing dark glasses, her hair in a motley tangle. Shivering, her arms curled inward, she digs in her nails into her flesh leaving an angry hatch work of red on her skin.
“What?” asks Chloe, startled, but Mattie speechless, draws in her breath and makes a soft high-pitched bleat deep her throat. She sidles past Chloe into the house. “Come,” Chloe says and directs her to the garden where a table and chairs sit in a shady grove at the edge of the