![]() In this tender and wise novel, Washington keeps one foot in the Houston of his acclaimed debut collection, Lot, while also traveling to Osaka. It’s about families and food, about cultural division and communion. I'm already reaching to toss my charger before he says it, tomorrow. There’s a lot in Bryan Washington’s Memorial that’s close to my heart. I ask him when he's leaving, and I know that's my mistake. After the black eye, we stopped putting our hands on each other – we'd both figured, silently, it was the least we could do. I don't key his car or ram it straight through the living room. ![]() But if you get a running start, it's never entirely gone. Some of the kids I work with, that's how their families make it into this country. ![]() The thing about a moving train is that, sometimes, you can catch it. I don't ask where his mother will sleep here, in our one-bedroom apartment, or exactly what that arrangement will look like. Mike used to have this thing about sriracha, he'd pull a hernia whenever I reached for it, but now he squeezes a faded bottle over my omelette, rubbing it in with the spatula. After they've settled, he salts them, drizzling mayonnaise with a few sprigs of oregano. ![]()
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