THE TEMPORARY HOUSE Grandmother and I moved for several months to a house that was in the center of town. She had bought it for next to nothing from a family that needed money to leave the country in a hurry. She was fixing it up, little by little, in order to resell it and make a bit of money. Grandfather had committed another one of his unforgiveable acts, appearing drunk one sticky, rainy morning, half naked, stinking, and smeared all over with red lipstick. Disgust

The door: unique, austere, never once failing to inspire awe. Known as the wonder of Emmanuel the Iraqi, a man consumed with a passion for precision. He oiled the door and reinforced its frame, carefully sanding it until every detail gleamed. Emmanuel had chosen his daughter’s favorite type of wood, certain she would appreciate it, and perhaps even be moved by the pride he poured into his craft. He whispered his daughter’s passion to the door – her love of the oak trees from

Remember, sure, I can do that. Remember over and over again, I can do that, too. Observing the sun and tracking its course is the easy part. But keep in mind that the sun is always altering its trajectory. Because the Earth wobbles and, what’s more, it’s lopsided. I can remember that, too. What I cannot do is raise a hand, an open hand but with the fingers very close together, to block out the sun—that, that specific thing, is one of the things I cannot do. The leaves, oh yes

1 My power to hail him by standing calmly in front of the window supposedly shows how I and my ideology dominate him. Not only because I...