There was no other word for it. It wasn’t exotic in the way that she imagined the Far East would be. It wasn’t idyllic like a Caribbean island. In fact, it was just as dank and gray as she’d been promised. And yet, expansive, colorless, and understated as London seemed, it was, to Abby, completely alive. She was living her Let’s Go. Or Fodor’s. Either way, it was cool as all hell. She half expected a Beefeater to come marching by.
“Are you ready, then?” Zoe slid down off of the lion and gave a final shake of her butt toward the pigeons, who responded by exploding into a frenzy of flapping wings.
“Yeah, um, will you just take my picture? In front of the lions?” Abby asked, handing her digital camera over. “You just have to press that button.”
“Sure thing, sister. Closer to the right. Not that close,” Zoe commanded, waving. “Cool. I want to get some pigeons into the frame.”
“You scared them all away with your disco trip,” Abby pointed out.
“Well, sure, if you’re going to be all nitpicky about it. Okay, this is it. You look bee-yoo-ti-ful. Smile.”
She put the camera down and placed her hand on her hip in frustration. “Excuse me, but do you have some form of clinical depression? Seasonal Affective Disorder, or something? Because where I come from, that’s not a smile, that’s indigestion.”
Abby burst out laughing.
“Yes, much better.” Zoe raised the camera again. “Now say . . .” A smile of her own spreading across her face. “Say ‘Westminster’ Abby!”
“Westminster Abby!”
There was no other word for it. It wasn’t exotic in the way that she imagined the Far East would be. It wasn’t idyllic like a Caribbean island. In fact, it was just as dank and gray as she’d been promised. And yet, expansive, colorless, and understated as London seemed, it was, to Abby, completely alive. She was living her Let’s Go. Or Fodor’s. Either way, it was cool as all hell. She half expected a Beefeater to come marching by.
“Are you ready, then?” Zoe slid down off of the lion and gave a final shake of her butt toward the pigeons, who responded by exploding into a frenzy of flapping wings.
“Yeah, um, will you just take my picture? In front of the lions?” Abby asked, handing her digital camera over. “You just have to press that button.”
“Sure thing, sister. Closer to the right. Not that close,” Zoe commanded, waving. “Cool. I want to get some pigeons into the frame.”
“You scared them all away with your disco trip,” Abby pointed out.
“Well, sure, if you’re going to be all nitpicky about it. Okay, this is it. You look bee-yoo-ti-ful. Smile.”
She put the camera down and placed her hand on her hip in frustration. “Excuse me, but do you have some form of clinical depression? Seasonal Affective Disorder, or something? Because where I come from, that’s not a smile, that’s indigestion.”
Abby burst out laughing.
“Yes, much better.” Zoe raised the camera again. “Now say . . .” A smile of her own spreading across her face. “Say ‘Westminster’ Abby!”
“Westminster Abby!”
For National Poetry Month in April, we are sharing poetry collections and books about poetry by authors who have their own stories to tell. These poets delve into history, reimagine the present, examine poetry itself, provide insight on grief and reflection—from traditional poems many know and love to poems and voices that are new and
In honor of Arab American Heritage Month in April, we are sharing books by Arab and Arab American authors that share their culture, history, and personal lives.
