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Small objects, objects made by hand, from another era, have a strange, talismanic power. I write this from my sister’s apartment, which is much, much nicer than mine; a two room flat in a brownstone in Bedstuy, with white, billowing curtains, bare wooden floors, plants, silence. Next to (cringe) laptop, is hibiscus tea (with a little Fernet Branca) in a white China cup, adorned with enameled drawings of pink, purple, and white flowers. To the left of my laptop, is an unlit candle, and two little wildflowers — which my sister must have picked from a garden on her block — in water. On the floor, romantically strewn about, is my sister’s copy of Anna Akhmatova’s “Complete Poems” and as well as Peter Nadas’ incredible novel “A Book of Memories,” which I let her borrow. It is Sunday, it is a little over 60 degrees outside. The sun is out, there is a slight breeze. I told myself I would write something, that I couldn’t waste the minor glory of the morning. I live down the street — I should add — from my sister, so it is no great diversion to walk down for a visit; only — with both of our work schedules, and private lives, I probably only make it here a few times a month, and rarely in the mornings, when the apartment is in its full glory.
