With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Mary Cross lives in Chicago and teaches memoir writing at DePaul and Northwestern Universities. She is the author of a collection of poems titled Rooms, Which Were People (Ohio State University Press).
After my father died in 1973, my grandmother put newspaper over all the first-floor windows at night. Sometimes I wonder if she was more afraid of looking out than of someone looking in. She’d wait until after the six o’clock news to do the chore.