The soulful, damp greenness of the rain forest envelopes us as Fred drives us across the bluffs of Galiano Island (in British Columbia, Canada) to Jane’s house for lunch. Fred works at Driftwood Cottages, where we’re staying for a few days. While it’s acceptable to ask for a pickup from the ferry, being chauffered…
My cousin was serving the coffee. We’d just made it through lunch without any emotional mishaps: my eighty-year-old mother, my brisk, patrician sixty-year-old cousin, and forty-something me. The clafouti was delicious, the conversation only mildly treacherous. For some reason, we’d chanced upon the notion of queer theory and though it gave my cousin a…
Planes and trains, roads and departure lounges… I’m on the road a lot these days, emptying out and filling up suitcases, sleeping in strangely capacious beds, waking up and trying to grasp and recognize the light. I’m in love, too, so the trips, intriguing and exciting as they are, are framed with a crisp,…