Nonfiction | December 01, 2005

This essay is not currently available online.

One Sunday inb the fall of 1950, soon after my fifth birthday, my father set fire to a ditch bank where the dry stalks of weeds rustled in a mild breeze.  He made me keep well back, but I could see the tongue of fire licking forward, leaving a trail of black.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.

SEE THE ISSUE

SUGGESTED CONTENT