Before they left for work every morning, they folded the mattress four times like a piece of paper and put it into the shoe closet.
My parents slept on a thin sponge mattress on the floor of the living room.
We lived in a one-bedroom basement apartment in the first building from the main street, before the road turned to take you deeper into the neighborhood, before the trees turned green and thick. My parents and I lived on the edge of a tree-lined street with well-manicured lawns and long, winding driveways that led up to three-story houses-but we did not live in any of those houses. That’s one of the things I think of when anyone asks me about where I’m from, where I grew up. The mould looked like a field of black dandelions. When nothing was done about them, they spread up to the ceiling. The mold on the walls started as little black dots near the floor. Souvankham Thammavongsa is the award-winning author of four books of poetry and her fiction has appeared in Harper’s, Granta, the Paris Review, Ploughshares, Best American Non-Required Reading 2018, and the O. The following story is from Souvankham Thammavongsa's book of short stories, How to Pronounce Knife.
0 kommentar(er)
