[My grandfather] the man whom I had met only once was becoming flesh and blood through the pages of a fiction. A LONDON nursing home. The shape of a figure beneath the sheets. My grandfather could just about whisper. He wanted a cigarette and a glass of whiskey. “Come up on the bed here, young fella,” he said, gruffly. It was 1975 and I was 10 years old and it would be the … [Read more...] about But Always Meeting Ourselves
But Always Meeting Ourselves
IA Newsletter, June 15, 2024

