I watched Rosalyn slide her thumb between the binding and the back page. She split it open as if returning to a passage in a book. It was a familiar blue. How small a document, I thought, and in this post-corona world of Zoom and Skype and WhatsApp, what a very tangible thing. On her hands, Rosalyn wore the rings of her daughter. At seventy-two, she was the eldest of the nine women in the Lake Atitlan writing group.
Because of the virus, many had chosen not to travel. Their absence had made it an intimate affair. Continue reading “The Passport”