Elevator
My hands still tremble sometimes at the drop of a voice, Dad’s disapproval Not To dialect. I am in the port of Svakia, Crete alone at a table across from the local toughs, like my high school fraternity; they send me back in time and space. “Keep away from the moving wall” the sign on the old Greek elevator says, when it’s perfectly clear, not the wall, but we are moving. I know, for now, I am my father sitting worried in fourth grade openly cheating because, he said, the test was unfair. Or was his father? He was liberated by France and its lovely wine which he doted on for years. I...
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