I called him Tooloulou, the Cajun word for crab. He reminded me of them little critters, the way he scurried ‘round the Square on skinny legs before stoppin’ at my table, watchin’ me read a tourist’s palm. “You got a mama, cher?” I asked…
At first it was Father’s pocket watch we found in our garden, crusted with mud and rust, his initials E. E. G. clearly etched into the metal. “It’s impossible,” Mother said. “We buried that with him.” It should have been hundreds of miles away,…
Sam and I are watching a documentary about the future, and he tells me that he’s not worried about it. “How can you not worry about the future?” The TV flashes images of tropical storms battering the Solomon Islands as Sam rises from the…
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