Mourning ritual:
After extracting Vladimir, Lolo Terah takes his seat beside the stairwell, between the porch and altar portals, and rubs his purple knees together, kindling Forrest Fires in silenced prayer. He squints from West to East Asian Standard Time, left to right lesion, as if to say, "It's just like whirling with a Polaroid from Haran," as Lola Serakh pivots, tending to their suburban Tire Shire. I keep reassuring them that I'm devilish on the outside, angelic inside, but he just won't stop shaking, does not stop to kiss the Tsunami of Mercy. We're expecting guests — less 'n less. Bok Choy vey.
NOTE: Immigrant Stories
