My father once wrote a poem for my mother, before they were married. Although he was Polish, he had an amazing command of the English language, rather like a Joseph Conrad or Vladimir Nabokov. So here are his words of love, sixty years on, in all their time-locked beauty. You asked me how I [...]
When I was thirteen, my father occasionally came to visit us for the weekend. There were a lot of things I assumed about his visits, back then. Like, for instance, the fact that he and my mother shared a bedroom only because there was no spare bedroom. They were, after all, separated. We lived in [...]
Wendy Skorupski 