I must have arrived home to the sounds of my father’s classical music. There’s a photo of me, 3 days old, a shriveled prune with a purple claw hanging over the edge of a crocheted blanket, propped up next to one of my father’s trombones which outsizes me by ten times.Read More
In the window of our adopted home in London for part of Summer, 2016.
I can be stern with him. I can tell him he's being silly and say he knows I'm coming back soon. But when he falls to pieces because I'm heading out the door, there's a part of me that melts and never wants to stop feeling this important to him.