Mud buildings, painted with pastel blues and pinks and greens, paint so watered down it gives the illusion of a hint of color, quickly fading by the relentless sun. Swirls and dips and weaves, women’s cloth embroidered with images that have long lost their meaning. Some with seven colors, some with one. Some with tiny mirrors sewn in, or beads, or sequins, or both. Or none. Little tin bracelets. Silver cuffs, each marked with tiny designs swirls and flowers and paisleys. Earr

A frequent traveler for his work with Firestone/Bridgestone, my grandfather would often meet with international businessmen who wanted to improve their English. Now, in those days of the ‘60s and ‘70s and ‘80s, he often worked with Japanese and South Korean colleagues. I remember as a young girl, who was enthralled with the worlds my grandfather, Papa, as he will always be known to me, had seen—the people he had talked to, the anecdotes he told, finding all of his stories of

Dear Disappointment, I have come to know you well, over the years. I have seen others who know you as well. We don’t speak the same language, we don’t see the world the same way, we don’t walk the same, experience the sun the same way, or even carry the same color on our skin, yet we have the same burden to carry—you, Disappointment. Month by month. Some of us met you immediately, and for others, it took years, but you have connected us across continents, borders, time zones,