Language of the Chaldeans

It is Margaret who answers the door. Her face falls immediately, I instantly recognize the extent of the sabotage— I am no longer fat—or chubby enough to enforce the hierarchy of the skinny.... But wait! All is not lost yet—I’m sure some alternative humiliation will be dispatched toute de suite to put me in my place… “These are lovely” the birthday girl scrutinizes the roses for defect.

The memory itself taking on the strange contours of a dream— A bright shadowy November afternoon in Columbus Circle. Heading underground for the trains, I am arrested by the impulse to call—my mother? Out with the cell phone, click on address book, scan personal directory till the heading “Mom” creeps up… press “SEND”…