The familiar scent of earl gray tea sends me back to my grandma's living room. When I was in elementary school, I'd come over multiple times a week and we'd sit on her off-white couch drinking black ... [+]
Originally published in Creative Nonfiction #56 / Summer 2015 / Waiting
Out in the world, no one sleeps. No one, no one.No one sleeps.—Federico García Lorca, "Sleepless City (Brooklyn Bridge Nocturne)"Madrid 2007. Sometime after 3 am. In six hours, I'll be discussing the poetry of Federico García Lorca with a teacher who never smiles, not even to be polite. I see her pale, expressionless face and think of ice—not the kind that makes for a delightful glass of sangria but the sort that stings your palms when you scrape it from your car during winter. We'll be talking about Lorca's transformative collection Poet in New York. The poems were inspired by his time in New