I read a story by Andrea Bajani in the New Yorker, 'Constellation'. I read the New Yorker stories often and rarely do they register, but this one, this take on the limping family at a particular pace with acceptance and curiosity in consort stops me without stopping, in the Finnish way.
Like so many episodes of household violence, that night came to seem like a hallucination, a lurid memory of something that wasn't connected to our life together and so would eventually, lacking any handhold, fade away.
