“White takeout styrofoam containers were the bowls of my childhood. They came when the sky smeared with charcoal and the playground rumble of daycare softened to faint whispers. On those weekday evenings, I would tilt my 10-year old head to listen: for the trill of keys and clink of pen in pockets, the thump of pointed work shoes and the ratting, dry coughs of my father; sounds and sights that told me - that even in this strange, lonely place full of faceless kids - I was home.”