Hairs
My dad's hair is a little mat, gray at the edges. Brendan's hair is the same way-he barely needs to comb it. Chris's hair is like a bush sometimes, but not always. After its cut its like needles. Thomas's hair is like Brendan's only thicker.
My hair is thick and curly, except for the thin wispy sun-bleached bits. My hair won't obey a clip or a rubber band for long. The wispy bits puff out into nets that give me a halo look.
My mother's hair is set in a perfectly colored perm, like those cartoons on TV.
My Name
In Greek my name means peace. My name is like the number 17. A light bright color. It is stories and sadness and longing, saying good night.
It was my grandmother's name, and now the English version is mine. She was strong-willed and stubborn too, with a love of the world like me. I would have liked to have known her better, this world-traveling woman. The story goes that she traveled to England to visit cousins, but when she got off the ship they called her Irené instead of Irene.
My name is always said the American way. Irene. Still very pretty, but blunter.
Papa Who Wakes Up Tired in the Dark
Dad talked to me on the phone from North Carolina one day. I'm worried about you, I said. What, he said, you're worried I won't have enough clean clothes. No, I say, I'm worried about what might happen. Don't be worried, he said. It can't happen again the same way. Still, I said. What if? I know that my dad will have to still fly, all the important government people will come to meetings still, because that is how the government does business.
My dad, his thick hands and loafers, who wakes up early to go to the airport, combs his hair with a fine tooth comb, and leaves before I wake, is reassuring me over the phone. I think if my own dad died what would I do. I hope he will be safe. I hope and hope.
Sally
A Smart Cookie
Beautiful and Cruel
My dad's hair is a little mat, gray at the edges. Brendan's hair is the same way-he barely needs to comb it. Chris's hair is like a bush sometimes, but not always. After its cut its like needles. Thomas's hair is like Brendan's only thicker.
My hair is thick and curly, except for the thin wispy sun-bleached bits. My hair won't obey a clip or a rubber band for long. The wispy bits puff out into nets that give me a halo look.
My mother's hair is set in a perfectly colored perm, like those cartoons on TV.
My Name
In Greek my name means peace. My name is like the number 17. A light bright color. It is stories and sadness and longing, saying good night.
It was my grandmother's name, and now the English version is mine. She was strong-willed and stubborn too, with a love of the world like me. I would have liked to have known her better, this world-traveling woman. The story goes that she traveled to England to visit cousins, but when she got off the ship they called her Irené instead of Irene.
My name is always said the American way. Irene. Still very pretty, but blunter.
Papa Who Wakes Up Tired in the Dark
Dad talked to me on the phone from North Carolina one day. I'm worried about you, I said. What, he said, you're worried I won't have enough clean clothes. No, I say, I'm worried about what might happen. Don't be worried, he said. It can't happen again the same way. Still, I said. What if? I know that my dad will have to still fly, all the important government people will come to meetings still, because that is how the government does business.
My dad, his thick hands and loafers, who wakes up early to go to the airport, combs his hair with a fine tooth comb, and leaves before I wake, is reassuring me over the phone. I think if my own dad died what would I do. I hope he will be safe. I hope and hope.
Sally
A Smart Cookie
Beautiful and Cruel