How to read the Air – Dinaw Mengestu

“At the time my mother had thought to herself, I could never love anything called “fall”. There was fall and Fall. To fall was to sink, to drop. When my mother was nine, her grandfather came out of his bedroom at the back of the house wearing only a robe with the strings united. He was deaf and half blind and had been for as long as Mariam could remember. He walked into the midle of the living room, and having reached the center, where he was surrounded on all sides by his family, fell not to his knees, but straight foward, like a tree that had been felled, the side of his head splitting open on the edge of the fireplace mantel, spraying the wall and couch with blood. That was one way to fall.”


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