Writing against the cultural aversion to aging and the aged, the feminist scholar explores our impulse to stop time.
In the face of its stare, I stared back, and the bear slavered in response, shook its thick fur as welcome or warning. . .
In an adapted vignette from the author’s new book, Standing Still in a Concrete Jungle, a surreal afternoon at a Wall Street lunch spot.
His father is more than twice her age but her eyes are pinned to his lips as he speaks to her in his fur-lined baritone.
He’s mopping at his pelvis with a wadded-up tissue, and then he’s mopping her up as well. Already the backs of her thighs are caking up.
The Arab is so stunned, he doesn’t move. Just stands there with his certificate and his rusty key. Not breathing.
She was limp and sweaty but I snuggled into the comfortable softness of her. They had cut her open, and she was whole. She looked very tired and sick; on her gown, blood bloomed like a slow flower.