Because, face it, self just cannot bring herself to think verse, all day long. And it’s a good thing the other book she’s reading has very supple, poetic language (even though it is prose). It is a lamentation by a Bosnian immigrant who immigrated to the US twenty years earlier. At fifty he gets his first heart attack, which triggers a journey of remembrance.
He flies to Phoenix, his first US home, introduces himself to the current occupants of his old apartment, but senses that something terrible has happened there because the man who answers the door says immediately, “No pictures” and seem wary and suspicious.
He reflects on the reason for his visit:
- Didn’t I come here to confront myself, convinced that we don’t in fact ever entirely leave the places where we’ve lived, some trace of us remains, our enduring presence, the way hotel mirrors retain the faces of all the people who have passed through the room? But it’s never like that. We remember the places we once lived, but it doesn’t remember us.