The plastic sandwich baggie in my ex-husband’s hand was scalloped in fog; all I could see of what was inside was a folded paper towel and some dirt. The Long Island summer heat wafted up from the gravel in waves. Even though we were shaded...
In the back of an Uber creeping down Decatur Street, my driver, Ursa, this short-haired Black woman a generation above me, is reminiscing about last week’s Frankie Beverly concert, slowing down to repeat the soft consonants of a memory too...
