Essays

At twenty-five I wrote about losing my grandfather — a Baptist minister I'd fought with over everything. Thirty years later, I understand what I was actually writing about: how the dead continue to love the living. The Church has a name for it.

A dog leash, a dishwasher drawer, and the only time Odysseus plans ahead.

In 2005 I visited South Africa, and as part of the trip we took a jeep up the Sani Pass into Lesotho, the highest plain in sub-Saharan Africa. There I met a woman who lived in an isolated rondavel with her