a closet.
on a year of grief and living single.
I was about 9 years old when I started retreating to my bedroom closet in moments of emotional distress. In the house on Multnomah Street, I would tuck my body into the quiet. It was just large enough to contain me, and I liked it that way. The softness of the fabric hanging overhead caressed my braids, crowning them with a halo of frizz. The solidity o…
