By Kat Rosenfield
An arresting un-coming-of-age tale, from a wide ranging expertise
Becca has continually longed to damage loose from her small, backwater place of origin. however the discovery of an unidentified useless woman at the part of a dust highway sends the town--and Becca--into a tailspin. not able to make experience of the violence of the skin global creeping into her yard, Becca unearths herself taking flight inward, paralyzed from relocating ahead for the 1st time in her lifestyles.
Short chapters detailing the final days of Amelia Anne Richardson's existence are intercut with Becca's personal summer time because the parallel tales of 2 younger ladies being affected by self-identity and relationships at the facet twist the reader nearer and toward the reality approximately Amelia's demise.
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Additional info for Amelia Anne is Dead and Gone
The first one inside and the last one inside sit next to each other, atop one another, share between them a book, but there aren’t enough books, never are. Ben Someone or Other’s summoned up to the almemar, the bima an island at middle he bridges across on the backs of his fathers; he throws up his tallis, is hugged, kissed, returned, hugged, kissed, then seated again, bound to his chair with tefillin. Outside faces press up against glass, crucified by the mullions, they’re stretched across shards, eventually shattering, each other, themselves; window glass that’s been silvered over, why not, the better to straighten yourself for what’s to come—and so, mirrors in which the waiting arrange hairs, under collars tuck ties, breathe against the panes to know they’re alive.
An idle worship, given to graven imaginings. Because, with regard to that memory, there’s not much of it left—but still, there’s hope…to be hoped for. Above the sill of the world, a pair of diamonds suspended. The moon and its stars, and the diamonds, too, are the impurities in the night, of the night, impurifying as those diamonds they’re only poetry, art; casements flecked with white paint, rubbled with plaster chips, remains of parget…these lights—no candles or candlesticks, which have been sacrificed to the rubble, melted down with their wicks wicked away, wisped into smoke with the upward ambition of flame—hover; what’s left is only their purpose: a question…does the light float in darkness?
Four are the legs of their table, a table with three legs is suspect, two are impure, and a table with one leg is an abomination in the eyes of God, which are infinite and are less eyes than they are legs upon which we might flee from the gaze of His judgment come the close of the Sabbath, our day of rest. The table sits on its legs, its legs sit on the floor. All is grouted—stayed, put—not moving, nothing rushing anywhere is what, just now no; all is grounded. Upon the ground, we know what is expected of us, and what to expect of others—to grovel for air.