The Currency of Tears

The Currency of Tears

Sabrina Orah Mark’s monthly column,  One day in nursery school, when I was five I think, I cried. My teacher, in her floral apron with gigantic pockets, handed me a paper cup. She handed me a paper cup, and told me to collect my tears as they slid down my face and...
I Am the Mother of This Eggshell

I Am the Mother of This Eggshell

Sabrina Orah Mark’s monthly column, When my grandfather was dying, he pointed into the gray hospital air and said, “Buildings.” “Drawn in light pencil,” he said. “All around me.” “Are they yours?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “They’re mine.” Now he is dead and his...