One of our first meals in this new country was the hamburger, a food that was, we were told in the camps, invented by Americans.
A survivor craves closeness, yet sabotages even the slightest hint of it.
I see her reach for the bare-chested man with the homemade tattoos and the dog that doesn’t respond.
Touch transcends the other senses, especially when the dying have lost their mental moorings.
Maybe I’m finally starting to make my peace with living in the Midwest.
