by Norma Marder
Athens. London. The names of foreign cities shoot from the mouths of my family. Other people thrive on travel books and itineraries but I, who love flying and visiting new places, dread any proposed transatlantic voyage. Last time I couldn’t walk for two weeks, I say. Or, I’ll feel like baggage. I recite a litany of potential afflictions, string worry beads of roles and expectations. I tell the truth and feel truth leach out, leaving only dry, deceitful words.
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