Sophie Dess

Gma

By Sophie Dess

My grandmother’s eyes at times are obscured by two thick sheets of glass placed in cat-eye frames – she wears bifocals, which means she can’t gauge the scale of a decline. I think it’s formally deemed ‘a problem with depth perception.’ Thus, stairs pose a particular problem; her shaking hand is always in search of a surface on which to balance her small – but nevertheless imperious – figure.

I travel with her down to the subway platform and watch her ring-adorned fingers shake until they clasp something stable. My eyes always settle on the […]

Gma2018-05-07T21:29:31+00:00

Sundays

By Sophie Dess

This was when I’d lie transfixed by the light that only came on Sundays, with my small body wrapped in a quilt cocoon, my head pressed against the pillow and eyes open and eager. I’d study the pale green of my walls, lit in that tender, rustic way. Lit in a light so delicious that my nails would itch to scrape it off the wall and taste it, to capture its green warmth in a jar and let it glow, perennially, in a darkened room where maybe I’d take a peek at it for […]

Sundays2018-05-07T21:46:24+00:00