As I open each envelope, the ancient rubber bands holding it together fall into little worms at my feet.
Fog obscured the houses. The scrawny, shaven-head rickshaw man sighed and hummed with the pedaling noise.
My dying mother did not leave this earth until she said with her last breath, 'And please dye your hair.'
For the first forty years of my life, I was quite happy as an adopted child who knew nothing about his origins.
Did I mention the small kitchen fire I started cooking mac ’n’ cheese?
