We Are Not in Pakistan (2007)
“The foliage is still thick and green, hiding the granite block walls of the canyon on either side. Above the retaining walls, buildings seem to grip the ground and teeter as if they’ve backed up as far as they can.
Kathleen’s footsteps echo in the earth-smelling cool as they pass beneath Lafayette Street. Cars swish above on the over-pass. Beyond the steel trusses of the bridge, the sky is a uniform blue, ragged where it meets the treetops.
“If this were Pakistan, Kathleen,” Grandma says, “whole families would be living under that bridge, would have been living there for years and years.”
Kathleen knows that. If it wasn’t for Grandma Miriam and Grandpa Terry and their old house, she and Mom might be living under some bridge.
Grandma’s dress sways about her tall lumpy figure. She has a faraway look; maybe she doesn’t realize she has really rubbed it in again.
Kathleen is passing through the wedge of shade jutting from the Prospect Avenue bridge. Tires howl and ping on the steel mesh surface.
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