I was born with clay in my hands,oil paint beneath my fingernails,my cradle rocked by a lullaby of tenor saxand the scratch of a pencil on cheap lined paper. At breakfast, someone recited Nerudaover toast slicked with jam.By dusk, a guitar moaned from the porch while my father’s drawings drifted like leaves across the floor. My mother hummed to the ghost of her grandmother,who danced barefoot through kitchens long vanished,flour-dusted and bright with song.We carried their stories in coffe...
