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ADVANCE PRAISE
“These essays travel far—from New Zealand to Chicago to India—charting, all the way, tangled origins, colonial legacies, the intricate shadings of truth and mythology. With warmth, curiosity, and lyrical intelligence, Toni Nealie keenly parses out the very human reverberations of dispersal, rupture, unraveling, and arrival.”
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Mosaic pot with a heart pattern that a friend made for our wedding? That we chose to store with a friend, for the time being, until our return from this “sabbatical.” My husband had secured a three-year contract. We would return. I knew that.
THEN, OUR FAMILY flew over the oceans, crossing the Tropic of Capricorn, the Equator, the Tropic of Cancer, the South Pacific, the North Pacific, continental America. We sped over the International Date Line and through seven time zones. In flight, there is no regard for the logic of hours, but I would soon discover the tyranny of clock-watching when desperately wanting to talk to my mother, waiting until three in the afternoon for her to wake up seventeen hours ahead of me. Twenty-four hours after departure, a white limo whisked us to Oak Park, Illinois—then got lost. It seemed that we had fallen into the mean streets of a television drama. The night was inky: no moon or stars visible, no lamplight penetrating the thick canopy of trees along the Des Plaines River Road from O’Hare Airport.
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