Grandma Ga, who perfectly recalled, more than a half century afterward, the details of the outfit she wore to the harbor to meet her Swiss lover Max, on a day so hot, her heels sunk into the asphalt, once told me, hung with blankets, from her permanent wheelchair perch, what a shame it was that at some point in the 1950's, women's hats began to get smaller and smaller until one day, they disappeared altogether.
I once wrote an epic novel which, after expunging all the unnecessary digressions, turned out to be a novella which, after abolishing all but the most imperative words, transformed into a short story, that upon further reflection could be expressed with greater efficiency in the form of a poem, that one day I realized was over-wrought and could stand tall as a three line haiku, which, one clear-minded day, I deleted letter by letter until all that remained was the serene finality of the blank page.
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