A Path to Devotion
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.
A Return
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.
