Today in Budapest, a strong, cool wind from the northwest. I sit on the warm sandstone wall at the edge of the Danube, and I turn my face toward the wind, and I button my cardigan and close my eyes.
The Danube gives way to the Sava. As I remember it, the Sava moves slowly in July and a woman stands beside it, the edges of her mind softened by disease. My sister shares this disease, stands by the window, follows me to the laundry room, stands beside me and shouts. I don’t tell anyone this history, but I’m heartsick over it all the time.