There was another reason why I opted not to become a doctor like my daddy. He was the only pediatric urologist in town, so he left for work before I woke, shuttled between two hospitals throughout the day, and returned home after my bedtime. Unbeknownst to me, when he would come to give me a goodnight kiss while I was fast asleep, I’d stick out my tongue at him.
(nonfiction)
When I traveled to Geneva, no matter what else was on the agenda, a reservation at the Boeuf Rouge was required. I never changed my order from quenelle de brochet. I looked forward to the quenelles more than any other part of my visit; they were a reliable, savory anchor in my itinerant young life.
(nonfiction)
I’d assumed I’d share my story with him over a beer when he was in his late twenties. A fun anecdote not a cautionary tale.
(nonfiction)
I have stories and photographs to remind me. But the rest is scattered like the 509th on that beach.
(nonfiction)
I held my magazines in my lap and looked longingly out the window, believing myself to be a melancholic character in the movie of my life.
(fiction)
The latest in our FORTHCOMING series of excerpts from new books
“Once upon a time, long ago in northern Hungary, the land of the Matyó, a beautiful boy and girl were deeply in love.”
(fiction)
“Am I with you, my son, in eternity, / though linear time is all I see?”
Another Chicago Magazine 