Little Bird of Heaven. Joyce Carol Oates

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      THE YEARNING IN MY HEART! This was a long time ago.

      “Can’t go inside with you, Krista. But I promise: I won’t drive away until you’re safe indoors.”

      That November evening at dusk we were driving along the river—the Black River, in southern Herkimer County, New York—west and slightly south of the city of Sparta, in this long-ago time swathed in mist and smelling of a slightly metallic damp: the river, the rain.

      There are those of us—daughters—forever daughters, at any age—for whom the smells—likely to be twin, twined—of tobacco smoke and alcohol are not unpleasant but highly attractive, seductive.