My grandmother lives in a white, two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old farmhouse in Woodstock, New York. Rumor has it that it was once used by the Grateful Dead as a practice space. The stairs creak and slant slightly. It is always cold. I have memories of being little and bathing in the claw-foot tub, the lip of which remained cool outside the water.
I walked with my ninety-year-old grandmother down a wide cobbled street in the middle of nowhere in Germany. We were in a small town called Bechhofen, and she hadn’t returned for nearly eighty years, since the threat of the Nazis forced her family to flee because they were Jewish.
The fire before sight