The Reminder
by Jason Tandon
My friend long dead visits me in a dream. "You're married," he says, "you've had a child." "Yes," I say, feeling my face flush with shame. "I grieved for you," I say. "I climbed a rooftop in a slanting rain and spit my curses at God." He smiles, and the rows of his teeth appear like spotless glasses brimming with milk.



















