“I’ve never really left home,” she promised. “Home travels with me. In my heart, of course, but also in my hair, my clothes. The scent of ginger and soap, curry and smoke, and you.”
When I turned 34, I decided to write a series of short stories. The only catch? Each story had to be 34 words. 34 years, 34 words. No more, no less. These are the fruits.