Eva Marer

The German teacher lived on a street of towering trees. Their weeping boughs stroked the curb, leaving sun-dappled green tunnels you could walk through. Birds flitted through the wheel-wells of cars, which seldom passed but stood parked for hours like sentries guarding their owners under house arrest. A dog barked, a child shouted; their voices—birds and children—warbled across the occasional buckshot of a car backfiring on a distant block.

Into the silence Mimi’s sobs echoed. She cried and clung to the door handle of the blue Volkswagen bus. The crown of her head was no higher than the top of the hubcap. She twisted and writhed, kicking the tire in protest. She didn’t want to go to the German lesson. She wanted to carry on and do exactly as she was doing: inertia.

“Mommy, please!” Her shrieks … Read More »