On the evening of the very last day of 2010, my husband and I zig-zagged our way through the Musashi-Kosugi train station markets where I admired clear plastic boxes of fresh shrimp tempura and soba.
Ramblings while on a slow suburban death.
Tag: #shortstories
In the year of my early youth when my father was charged with bringing me to the Emporium rooftop for an afternoon of Santa photos and Christmas rides, he bundled me into a series of sweaters and scarves so tight that I began to sweat while riding the 5 Fulton.
The ritual post-Thanksgiving writing exercise required that Sister Linda’s third grade class detail the holiday events.
While I was a prolific letter writer during my teenage years, my choices of pen pals were not always wise. Of course, it took a while to dispense of my one prison pen pal, but I finally managed to confine my correspondence to one nice German girl who sent me wonderful photos of her home in Bavaria and from vacations to Spain.
At some point after I began Kindergarten, there was a noticeable change in the behavior of my parents. Along with homework and my own awkwardness in social settings, I lost contact with both my mother or father.
Somewhere between Dublin and Tokyo, Morning Star School in San Francisco began beating its own cultural drum.