I Tended To Be Drawn

Somehow I Wasn't Adding Up Right Anymore. My Parts Weren't Summing Into Myself.

I Had Been Eagerly Waiting Just Such A Disaster. Storms, Wolves, Snakebite, Floods-these Are The Occasions To Find Out How Your Father Sees You, How Strong And Necessary He Thinks You Are.

Whenever Someone Asks Me About Fantasy Versus Realism, I'm Like, "i Don't Know, Guys. Did We Not All Just Descend Into Some Underworld, Watch Strangers From Our Past Kaleidoscope Through Us According To Some Pattern That Is Both Illogical And Has Its Own Strange Melting Truth, And Then Wake Up And Have A Pop-tart?" Why Are We Talking About Fantasy And Reality Like They're Opposed?

Granana Doesn't Understand What The Big Deal Is. She Didn't Cry At Olivia's Funeral, And I Doubt She Even Remembers Olivia's Name. Granana Lost, Like, Ninety-two Million Kids In Childbirth. All Of Her Brothers Died In The War. She Survived The Depression By Stealing Radish Bulbs From Her Neighbors' Garden, And Fishing The Elms For Pigeons. Dad Likes To Remind Us Of This In A Grave Voice, As If It Explained Her Jaundiced Pitilessness: "boys. Your Grandmother Ate Pigeons."

Heaven, Kiwi Thought, Would Be The Reading Room Of A Great Library. But It Would Be Private. Cozy. You Wouldn't Have To Worry About Some Squeaky-shoed Librarian Turning The Lights Off On You Or Gauging Your Literacy By Reading The Names On Your Book Spines, And There Wouldn't Be A Single Other Patron. The Whole Place Would Hum With A Library's Peace, Filtering Softly Over You Like White Bars Of Light.