My father was on his long taxi journey when my mother said she might have a crush on someone. “Someone who doesn’t do quixotic things for quick money,” she flounced. In the year before the little shuttle I had been in real love. That boy’s rare blood disease made me overqualified in the matter, more pent-up with useless expertise than the PhD swabbing our school floors. . . . .
|COMING 5/5: AN ESSAY BY LISA KNOPP|