I was driving with my two youngest daughters through the streets of Valencia. As we approached my old neighborhood, I turned the corner too wide and ended up flush against the buildings on the wrong side of the street. A car had to swerve to avoid hitting me. The street turned out to be where I used to live, so I turned left. It had become very narrow, with houses and shops lining both sides. As I drove up the street, I tried to remember our apartment number. I drove past it, put the car in...

I was work at the barbershop finishing a customer who I had to seat in one of the hairdresser chairs as my barber chair was being serviced.   I was having a hard time shaving my customer’s neck and chin as the hairdresser had didn’t have a headrest and was quite low to the ground, forcing me into some very awkward and physically challenging postures in order to finish the shave.   As I was wiping the gentleman’s face clean, my mother walked into the shop in her usual disguise—my 1970s-era...

I’m back in the old apartment at 6433 N. Washtenaw, the place where I lived from fourteen to eighteen. The kitchen is dark and Wendy is standing there, facing me but saying nothing at first. When I ask where she’s been, she says one word: “Poo.” I think I misheard her, so I ask again. She repeats it. “Poo.”   I move toward her and ask once more, trying to catch whatever she’s saying in the quiet of the kitchen. When I get close enough, she says it again— “poo” —and I see the dogs standing by...