The Brooklyn Rail

It is good to see you, Isabella says, hugging me and taking away my suitcase. I follow her to the taxi as she walks lopsided, struggling with the big bag. It has wheels on it, I holler, but she doesn’t stop. She probably doesn’t understand the English word wheels. The driver runs up to help her.

Before anything else, at the beginning of the story told here, there was a screening of India Song at an art cinema in the city where you lived.