{"id":102979,"date":"2016-09-22T16:27:32","date_gmt":"2016-09-22T20:27:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=102979"},"modified":"2020-03-06T15:23:07","modified_gmt":"2020-03-06T20:23:07","slug":"sand","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/","title":{"rendered":"Sand"},"content":{"rendered":"

Barry Yourgrau\u2019s story \u201cSand\u201d appeared in our Spring 1985 issue<\/a>. It appears (in slightly different form) in his\u00a0collection\u00a0<\/em>Wearing Dad\u2019s Head<\/a>, reissued this month by Arcade Publishing along with another of his books,<\/em>\u00a0Haunted Traveller.<\/em><\/p>\n

My father comes into my room. \u201cLook,\u201d he says. He carefully opens his hands: a luminous, gold-colored butterfly sits in the bowl of his palms, like a light he has carried into the dark room. I prop myself up on a hand in the pillows, gazing in sleepy awe. The butterfly remains still for a while; then it twitches its wings. We watch it flutter in a curving, luminescent course to the window, and then under the sash and out into the night.<\/p>\n

We go downstairs and noiselessly out the back door onto the dark lawn. My father points up a tree: a halo flickers around its crown. In its topmost leaves a golden colony hovers. \u201cThey\u2019ll be there all night,\u201d says my father, his voice a whisper. I stand beside him in my pajamas, spellbound and feeling a strange, tranquil enchantment, as if the night has turned into my bedroom. \u201cWhere do they come from?\u201d I ask my father. \u201cFrom the moon,\u201d he says softly. We look at the moon. \u201cAt least,\u201d he says, \u201cthat\u2019s what I\u2019ve always been told.\u201d<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s eat,\u201d says my father. We go into the dining room. Halfway through the meal the phone rings. My father puts down his napkin and pushes back his chair and goes out to answer the phone himself, since he\u2019s expecting a call. I seize the opportunity to right an inequality that\u2019s been vexing me since we sat down. I pick up my father\u2019s plate and hastily scrape what\u2019s left on it onto mine, and bolt everything down. My father had given himself by far the larger, tastier portion to start with. He comes back into the room and sees the two empty plates. He looks at them. I sit quietly, trying to appear vacant. He doesn\u2019t say anything. He walks behind me. Suddenly he grips me by the back of the collar and heaves me out of my chair, onto the floor.<\/p>\n

I lie on the floor, shocked. After a while, I get to my feet, my face burning. I set the chair back upright. I go out of the room into the hallway on trembling legs. I make my way towards the kitchen, and pause in the doorway awkwardly. \u201cDad, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d I tell him, in an unsteady, chastened voice. \u201cI was only joking.\u201d He stirs eggs in a bowl. The flame is on under a frying pan. He glances at me. He closes the lid of the egg carton on the counter and takes it over to the refrigerator. \u201cThe sooner your mother gets back from her trip, the better,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I come into the kitchen. My mother screams. Finally she lowers her arm from in front of her face, \u201cWhat are you doing, are you out of your mind!\u201d <\/em>she demands. I grin at her, in my Bermudas and bare feet. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I tell her in a chambered voice, through my father\u2019s heavy, muffling lips. \u201cHe\u2019s taking a nap, he won\u2019t care.\u201d \u201cWhat do you mean he won\u2019t care<\/em>? she says. \u201cIt\u2019s his head. <\/em>For God\u2019s sake put it back right now before he wakes up.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d I tell her, pouting, disappointed that her only response is this remonstration. \u201cI\u2019ll put it back in a while.\u201d \u201cNot in a while, now<\/em>,\u201d she says. She moves her hands as if to take the head from me, but then her hands stammer and withdraw, repulsed by horror. \u201cMy God<\/em>,\u201d she says, grimacing, wide-eyed. She presses her hands to her face. \u201cGo away! Go away from here!\u201d \u201cMom.\u201d I protest, nonplussed. \u201cGet out of here!\u201d she cries.<\/p>\n

I stalk out of the kitchen. Hurt and surprised I plod heavily up the stairs. I go into my parents\u2019 bedroom. I stand at the foot of the bed. My father lies on his back, mercifully unable to snore, one arm slung across his drum-like hairy chest in a pose particular to his sleep. I look at him. Then I back away, stealthily, one step at a time, out the door. On silent bare feet I steal frenetically down the hall, down the front stairs and out the front door. On the street I break into a run but the head sways violently and I slow to a scurrying walk, until I\u2019m in the woods. Then I take my time on the path, brooding, my hands in my Bermudas pockets. I come to the creek and stand balancing on dusty feet on a hot, prominent rock. The midafternoon sun lays heavy, glossy patches on the water and fills the trees with a still, hot, silent glare. A bumblebee drones past, then comes back and hovers inquiringly. I get off the rock and stoop down, bracing the head with one hand, and pick up a pebble. I get back on the rock and fling the pebble at the creek. It makes a ring in the water. Another ring suddenly blooms beside it. I look around at the path. A friend of mine comes out of the trees. \u201cHi,\u201d I say to him. \u201cHi,\u201d he says, in a muffled, confined voice. He stops a few feet from me. \u201cYou look funny,\u201d he says. \u201cSo do you,\u201d I tell him. I make room for him on the rock. \u201cWhere\u2019s your dad?\u201d I ask him. \u201cIn the hammock,\u201d he says. \u201cWhere\u2019s yours?\u201d \u201cWe don\u2019t have a hammock,\u201d I tell him. \u201cHe\u2019s in bed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Half an hour later there are half a dozen of us standing, great-headed, at the side of the creek.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

My father and I quarrel and he cuffs me and I lose my balance and tumble down the carpeted stairs and bang my head into the foot of the banister.<\/p>\n

I lie in bed with my head festooned in bandages. Every evening my father comes into my room with another present for me. A science book, which perhaps I\u2019ll read; an instructive game, which I\u2019ll certainly never play. Then he wheels me out onto the screen porch and turns on the lamp and reads me a story aloud, which normally he never does. The stories are hoary favorites of his from his own childhood, and they bore me terribly. But I love the sound of his voice as he reads, hammy and low and at times awkwardly urgent. Then he puts the book aside. He reaches down and from under the lamp table he brings out our paper hats. He has fashioned these with his own hands from the Sunday paper. He spreads mine wide and carefully seats it on my swaddled head. He fits his own on. Then he turns off the lamp, and in our hats we sit together waiting for the moon, a pale giant, to rise above the woods across the street. He tells me about these woods, as my mother used to when I was still a very little child. \u201cYes, it\u2019s all true …\u201d he murmurs, squeezing my hand in his, his great wavering hat nodding in the dark. \u201cThe woods are full of all sorts of things\u2014lions, tigers, savage crocodiles \u2026 And two valiant soldiers.\u201d he adds, squeezing my hand. \u201cThe young one wounded, the other, who loves him, to nurse him \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I am taken prisoner by pirates. They put me in irons but release me after I agree to join them. Our ship leaves the coast and enters the muddy reaches of a river. Here the wind falters and then the water becomes too shallow for navigation. We take to rowboats and after an afternoon of arduous pulling, put ashore under trees. The pirate captain says we will eat now; after dark we will move on foot to our raid\u2019s destination. Two laughing, stinking types\u2014my \u201cshipmates\u201d\u2014come out of the woods from foraging with a squealing pig in their arms. The one who wears a brass ring in his nose thrusts his cutlass blade against the pig\u2019s throat, and laughing all the while, the two of them let the frantic pig wriggle out of their grasp, so that when it lands it\u2019s done the work itself of cutting its own throat. The pig rushes briefly in idiotic, posthumous circles in its blood. I turn away, horrified. \u201cGo fetch me the ears,\u201d says the captain, grinning at me sadistically as he scratches under his shirt for lice.<\/p>\n

The sun sinks. The night is moonless. We move inland. The first mile or so is through dense woods; after much confusion and crashing and cursing, the captain angrily submits and we go under the light of a small torch. Then we reach a main road and the torch is doused and we go across. The woods are sparser here. We come to a smaller road and follow it, keeping just off the edge, breathing heavily, weapons clanking in the silence. They have provided me only with a cudgel, apparently not trusting me with a cutlass or pistol. Suddenly I crash into the back of the man ahead of me. who has stopped. He elbows me savagely. It\u2019s the brute with the nose ring. \u201cWe\u2019re here,\u201d the captain announces in a fierce whisper.<\/p>\n

The dark shape of a mailbox stands beside the entrance of a driveway into the trees. Part of a house is visible, set back on a high lawn. I regard all of this with disbelief. \u201cBut this is where my parents live!\u201d I gasp. \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d says the captain, eyeing me over several shoulders. \u201cNothing,\u201d I reply, and I sink back out of his sight. I am in shock. I hear mutterings all around me about a fabulous treasure of vacation slides. We start in a body up the driveway. I can see now the car my mother wrote me they\u2019ve been trying to sell. No lights show in their window. They\u2019re asleep of course, they go to bed early. My heart is sickened, feverish. What could pirates want with my old man\u2019s vacation slides? They are good slides, it\u2019s true, but worth a raid? I cover my mouth, thinking of what\u2019s in store for my poor elderly parents. We reach the lawn. The first pirate goes tramping through my mother\u2019s zinnias. Suddenly the cudgel flails in my hands.<\/p>\n

I race towards the house. \u201cMom! Dad!\u201d I scream. \u201cStop him!\u201d the captain\u2019s voice shouts. Explosions roar around me. \u201cSave your ammunition, save your ammunition!\u201d the voice screams. I fling over the welcome mat and find the key and throw open the door and go rushing down the hallway, crying alarm. The lamp is on in my parents\u2019 bedroom. I burst in. My father is sitting on the side of the bed in his pyjama bottoms, fitting on his spectacles. His grey hair stands up in sleepy wisps. His false tooth is in the glass on the night table. \u201cWhat is all that noise and shouting?\u201d he says. \u201cWhat are you doing here? I thought you were out west communing with nature. Why are you wearing that funny eyepatch?\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s no time for questions, we have to run,\u201d I gasp, pulling him by the arm. \u201cCome on!\u201d I cry, then, looking around, I let go. \u201cOh my God, where\u2019s Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n

The bedroom door crashes against the wall. The pirates fill the threshold, all black moustaches and yellow teeth, headkerchieves, drawn cutlasses, smoking guns. \u201cHa!\u201d cries the captain. He comes swaggering into the room in front of his troop. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d says my father, rising to his feet. \u201cWho are these awful people, are they friends of yours?\u201d \u201cThey\u2019re pirates, dad,\u201d I muttered unhappily. The captain stops in front of us and raises his cutlass into my face. He sets the point slowly against my chin so I have to tilt my head back. \u201cWe\u2019re going to hang you by your guts, you mutinous dog,\u201d he announces savagely \u201cThis is an outrage!\u201d cries my father. \u201cHow dare you? Stop that this instant!\u201d \u201cDad, don\u2019t,\u201d I tell him, through clenched teeth, squinting down the length of the blade. \u201cShut up, greybeard.\u201d the captain sneers. He gives a quick vicious prod so that I jerk. \u201cWhat we want from you,\u201d he says, addressing my father but glaring at me, \u201cis to tell us exactly where the slides are.\u201d My father gasps. He draws an arm up in front of his once burly but now wizened chest in a pathetic gesture of defiance. \u201cNever!\u201d he cries. \u201cWhat do you say?\u201d grins the captain. He presses the cutlass slowly so I have to bend my back. \u201cDad \u2026 \u201c I plead out of the side of my mouth. There is a long, deadly pause. \u201cDo you think I\u2019ll wait all night!\u201d the captain gasps furiously and his jab makes me stagger backwards into the night table, upsetting the tooth glass. \u201cDad, please\u2014\u201d I whimper. \u201cStop!\u201d cries my father. His voice breaks. \u201cThey\u2019re in the closet, over by the secretary.\u201d The captain grins lividly. \u201cHa!\u201d he says. He pulls the cutlass away with a sharp flick of his wrist. I squeal in pain and clap a hand to my chin. I look at the palm: there is a drop of blood on it. The captain swaggers over towards the closet, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder for someone to guard us. \u201cDon\u2019t cry, bag-of-bones, we\u2019ll take good care of your treasure for you,\u201d he says, and he cackles derisively. He pushes his men out of the way and flings open the closet door.<\/p>\n

There is a tremendous choral explosion. The captain rises into the air like a rag doll and sprawls down onto the floor. There is no more front to his body whatsoever. My mother and the next-door neighbors, all in nightgowns, step through the smoke firing blunderbusses and muskets. \u201cNow we\u2019ll show them!\u201d cries my father. Flintlock pistols blossom in each of his hands. They belch flame. Our guard screams and topples to the floor clutching his face. My father throws the pistols aside. A saber and a dagger take their place. \u201cCover my back!\u201d he cries. Stupefied, I do what he says and stand behind him. I look around for a weapon, all I can find is the cudgel I brought with me. Furious cries and clangings and explosions around in the room behind my back. Suddenly a pirate bursts in front of me. A brass ring hangs over his frenzied snarl. It\u2019s the pig sadist. His berserk one-eye glitters at me. Cursing him. I cower under my cudgel as his cutlass rises high above my head and the spit of his own invectives sprays me. My life flashes before me. The cutlass flashes down with ferocious violence, past me, into the floor where it quivers wildly, sunk on its tip. A hand and forearm are still attached to its handle, gruesomely, all by themselves. The pirate gapes at this spectacle in one-eyed astonishment. Then his astonishment transfers to his chest, where, to a deep gurgling in his throat, the blade of a saber driven by two neuralgic hands sinks full length into his ribs, up to the hilt, then withdraws, covered in blood. He slumps, lifeless and gushing, onto the bed. \u201cAre you alright?\u201d cries my father, the bloody sword in his hands. \u201cYes, I think so,\u201d I gasp, my knees trembling. Then I gasp again, pointing in horror. \u201cYour shoulder!\u201d I cry. \u201cWhat?\u201d says my father. He peers down his nose at the red stain at the top of his arm. \u201cAch, it\u2019s just a flesh wound,\u201d he says. He looks past me and he grins, pale in the face and looking rather foolish with his tooth missing. \u201cWell I think we\u2019re about all done for the evening,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

Some hours later, when many things have been cleaned up and seen to, the three of us sit alone by ourselves at last in the kitchen. The blackberry cordial my father brings out for special occasions is open on the table. My mother is putting a safety pin into the bandage on his shoulder. I have a Band-Aid on my chin. \u201cSo you see we\u2019ve known a raid was coming for quite some time,\u201d my father says. \u201cEveryone in the neighborhood has been very helpful and kind about it, especially the Lewises from next door. I must say we didn\u2019t expect to see you! But when the time came, we were ready for them.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll say you were.\u201d I agree. \u201cBut you know, there\u2019s still one thing in all of this I don\u2019t quite understand: why would they want your slides?\u201d \u201cOh, that,\u201d says my father. He shifts in his seat and a grin of debonair self-effacement takes form on his face, and I realize he is trying to evoke the debonair movie heroes of his younger days. His tooth is back in place. \u201cWell I\u2019ll resist the obvious temptation of saying they\u2019re all \u2018gems\u2019\u2026\u201d he jokes urbanely, pausing to let this bon mot <\/em>sink in. \u201cBut in fact.\u201d he continues, \u201cfor some reason people seem to value them very highly.\u201d \u201cDid you know,\u201d my mother breaks in, \u201cthat next month the library is going to have an exhibit of your father\u2019s slides?\u201d \u201cJust prints of them,\u201d my father corrects her. But he\u2019s beaming proudly. \u201cBut at their expense.\u201d He leans back in his chair and slings his unbandaged pale arm over the back rest and regards me with a cool, wry twinkle in his eye, his characterization now in full flood. \u201cSo you see. Mr. Adventurer-Out-West,\u201d he says, the lamplight in his hair, \u201cmaybe we do live in a quiet little town here, and perhaps we are getting on a bit in years \u2026 but we still manage to have our share of excitement. Wouldn\u2019t you say?\u201d<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

<\/a>News comes to us of my father. He\u2019s lying in the sands. \u201cYou must go and recover him,\u201d says my mother, \u201cand bring him back for a decent burial.\u201d \u201cYeah, yeah,\u201d I tell her. \u201cRight now do you mind if I finish my breakfast?\u201d<\/p>\n

After breakfast I go upstairs to my room. Presently my mother comes to find me. \u201cOh this is appalling,\u201d she says. \u201cWhat are you doing, just lying there?\u201d \u201cI think I have the gout,\u201d I tell her. \u201cMy big toe is killing me.\u201d \u201cNonsense,\u201d she says. \u201cPeople your age don\u2019t have gout.\u201d \u201cWhy not?\u201d I demand. \u201cDad had it. I inherited it.\u201d \u201cStop this nonsense!\u201d she cries. Her eyes suddenly fill with tears. \u201cYour poor father lies rotting under a foreign sun and his own flesh and blood won\u2019t even lift a finger to find him.\u201d I writhe frantically at this remark. \u201cWhy should I?\u201d I shout, swarming to a sitting position. \u201cThere was only one reason he went chasing off to that God-forsaken place. And what was it? I\u2019ll tell you what it was: it was because he heard they made terrific stewed fruit! So now I have to disrupt my entire life. I have to risk getting myself killed, because of his <\/em>craving for stewed fruit? I say he can go to hell!\u201d I lounge back, glowering. My mother stares at me with a trembling face. She rushes sobbing out the door. I lie glaring after her; then I smash my fist into the blankets and curse and drag myself out to the head of the stairs.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I shout down the staircase, into the stillness. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I\u2019ll go. I can barely read a map and you know how much I hate flying, but I\u2019ll go.\u201d My mother appears in the kitchen doorway. She looks at me, grim-faced. \u201cDon\u2019t you ever raise your voice to me again like you did just now in your room,\u201d she says. Her own voice is quiet, deadly. \u201cI said I\u2019m sorry,\u201d I tell her, chastened. I take a step down towards her. \u201cI said I\u2019m going.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s not good enough,\u201d she says. \u201cScreaming at me like that.\u201d \u201cMom. I just wanted you to know how I felt,\u201d I explain. \u201cAnd what about how I<\/em> feel!\u201d she shouts. She stamps her foot. \u201cI\u2019m tired of hearing about your feelings, all I heard from your father was his \u2018feelings\u2019! What about me and my feelings? And what sort of a man are you anyway with your stupid gout and your miserable fear of flying?\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t tell me about being a man!\u201d I cry heatedly. \u201cYou\u2019re a damn fool, that\u2019s what you are!\u201d she shouts back, and she wheels and goes through the doorway. I make a livid, obscene gesture after her. Then I wheel myself and stamp back to my room.<\/p>\n

I eat lunch alone. Afterwards I leave the house without speaking to her. I go downtown and, after some confusion, locate the consulate I want. A dark, grinning young man in a Hawaiian shirt shows me into a spacious office. A powerful air conditioner drones. \u201cIsn\u2019t this heat something?\u201d he drawls pleasantly. \u201cHow about a diet soda?\u201d He comes back from a small refrigerator with a can and a straw. \u201cThanks.\u201d I tell him. I wince. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d he says. \u201cIt\u2019s nothing,\u201d I tell him. \u201cA touch of the gout, that\u2019s all.\u201d He smiles, nodding several times in recognition. \u201cI sympathize,\u201d he says. \u201cSometimes I have it so badly in this ear I have to lie all night with a huge ball of cottonwool soaked in paraffin stuffed in it.\u201d I look at him. \u201cNo, no\u2014gout<\/em>,\u201d <\/em>I tell him quickly. \u201cMy big toe. Uric acid. Inflammation of the joint.\u201d He looks back at me. \u201cAre you sure that\u2019s what is meant by \u2018gout\u2019?\u201d he says doubtfully. \u201cOh yes.\u201d I tell him, shifting in my seat, trying hard to remain amiable. \u201cBut this condition you describe,\u201d he continues, examining me askance, \u201csurely this is a condition of older people. Aren\u2019t you too young for it?\u201d \u201cIt is more common among older people,\u201d I allow stiffly. \u201cBut it certainly can occur if you\u2019re younger.\u201d \u201cI see,\u201d he says. He considers me in silence. I stare at the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, anyhow,\u201d he says. He smiles. \u201cHere is the map you asked for.\u201d He pushes it across the desk towards me. He folds his hands in front of him and inclines his head and looks amused. \u201cAnd what, if I may ask.\u201d he says, \u201ccould possibly in- terest you about our enormous, overheated, preposterously sandy country?\u201d \u201cOh. personal things.\u201d I reply, shrugging. I feel his stare on me. \u201cAnd culinary things.\u201d I add. I clear my throat. \u201cFor instance. I have heard about your wonderful stewed fruit.\u201d His stare becomes puzzled. \u201cOh that<\/em>,\u201d he says finally. He shrugs. \u201cIt\u2019s not too bad. I suppose, if you like that sort of thing.\u2026\u201d Suddenly he looks off to the side and titters. \u201cWe always have to warn our visitors, if you\u2019ll pardon me, to be very careful of it,\u201d he giggles. He grabs his belly in both hands and grimaces violently. \u201cIt cleans you out but good<\/em>!\u201d he cries, laughing uproariously. I stare at his gyrations, and a sudden, terrible insight unfurls through my consciousness. \u201cWait a minute,\u201d I ask him, gripping my chair, \u201cyou don\u2019t think someone could actually\u2014I mean, under the circumstances, out there in the desert\u2014you don\u2019t think it could ever be fatal<\/em>?\u201d \u201cFatal<\/em>?\u201d he says. \u201cOh no no\u2014well. I suppose if someone were to just eat and eat and eat. But no one could be that <\/em>foolish.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m afraid I know someone who could.\u201d I mumble.<\/p>\n

In a kind of daze I get to my feet. \u201cI must be going now,\u201d I tell him. \u201cThank you. For everything.\u201d \u201cNot at all, not at all,\u201d he says, rising with me. He holds out his hand and bares his teeth. \u201cEight-fifty, please,\u201d he says. I regard him blankly. \u201cEight-fifty?\u201d I repeat. \u201cFor what? For this map?\u201d \u201cAnd the diet soda,\u201d he says. \u201cThe diet soda!\u201d I reply. \u201cHow much was the diet soda?\u201d \u201cTwo-fifty for the soda,\u201d he says. \u201cSix for the map.\u201d \u201cBut that\u2019s highway robbery,\u201d I protest, coloring. He shrugs, grinning, holding up empty hands. \u201cThis air conditioning, \u201c he says. \u201cIt\u2019s preposterously expensive.\u201d<\/p>\n

I arrive home fuming. I slam the front door and stamp noisily into the hall, shouting for my mother. There\u2019s no answer. Shouting, I stalk into the kitchen. On the table is a note. \u201cI\u2019ve gone to retrieve your father,\u201d it says. \u201cYour supper is in the fridge. Bring it out a while before putting it on the stove. (It may need salt.)\u201d I scream uncontrollably. As I come back out the front door, pain shoots suddenly through my foot so that I hop and stumble idiotically down the front steps. I hurry into the street, gnashing my teeth. I know exactly where she is. At the end of the block I lumber up the short bank of the defunct railroad tracks. I see her ahead, silhouetted against the setting sun, marching along towards the bus stop. A feeling of such utter pathos assaults me that for a moment I just stop where I am. She is dressed for rescue, grotesquely: Hopping sun hat, open parasol, my old Boy Scout pack and canteen on her back, her thin calves up to the knee in my hiking socks, which puff out in huge, clownish wads between the straps of her sandals. \u201cMom!\u201d I shout, hurrying again after her. She stops and slowly turns. She watches my approach. \u201cWhat on earth do you think you\u2019re doing?\u201d I demand. She stares at me and starts to answer, but then her face just wobbles. I put my arms around her. \u201cMom, Mom \u2026\u201d I murmur, patting her shoulder as she weeps against me. \u201cThe poor, poor man,\u201d she sobs, \u201call alone for the vultures to pick at.\u201d \u201cMom, it\u2019s alright,\u201d I soothe her, a great lump swelling in my throat. \u201cI\u2019m going, I told you it\u2019ll be alright.\u201d After a while, I turn and lead her back slowly across the darkening tracks toward the house.<\/p>\n

I put her to bed without bothering about supper. She takes one of my father\u2019s sleeping pills and is asleep before I have the door closed. I go up to my room. I turn on the ball game softly and sit with my foot up and the map and my world atlas in my lap. I look at them, musing somberly. Outside, the night is warm and still.<\/p>\n

Towards midnight I wake up suddenly. I\u2019m still in the chair. I rub my eyes. Then I stiffen. I turn off the radio and listen, darkly. A closet door slides open downstairs; clothing hangers rattle. I step over the atlas where it has fallen and go out into the dim hall, and after a pause, go softly down the stairs. The door to the bedroom is slightly ajar, the lamp is on. \u201cMom,\u201d I whisper desperately, and I push the door and peer in. I gasp. \u201cDad \u2026 \u201d I stammer.<\/p>\n

My father looks at me from the closet\u2014an eerily robust version of my father, one with dark-tanned skin, garishly blackened tufts of hair on his almost bald head, huge pitch-black sunglasses. \u201cYes,\u201d he says. \u201cShhh\u2014your mother!\u201d He gestures with his head towards the bed, where my mother\u2019s long-nostrilled, barbiturated nose pokes above the covers. \u201cMy God,\u201d I whisper, stepping into the room, \u201cwe thought you were dead!\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d he says. \u201cI sent the notification myself. And for all intents and purposes, continue to regard it as the case.\u201d I stare at him, unable to believe what I\u2019m hearing. A bizarre, alien presence confronts me, in slippers with long, curling toes. \u201cDad, what\u2019s all this about?\u201d I demand. \u201cWhy are you taking all these clothes? What\u2019s going on?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m a new man, that\u2019s what\u2019s going on,\u201d he says, adding another shirt to an armful of them. An open bag, sumptuously tooled, lies on the floor stuffed with his potbellied underwear. \u201cI feel like a million bucks,\u201d he says. \u201cI feel like a kid again. Here\u2014\u201d He shifts the load of shirts to wiggle something out of his breast pocket. He grins lustily, showing splendidly white teeth. \u201cIs that, or is that not, paradise?\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

I look at the photograph of him in his new persona, sprawled under a tent awning amidst a heap of grinning hour is, all wearing sunglasses and all as plump as he is. I think of a pile of roasted pumpkins. \u201cI just had to come back to get some things to wear,\u201d he grins, taking the photo back. \u201cI feel like an idiot in those bedsheets they run around in.\u201d He lays the shirts into the bag and reaches into the closet for more. I watch him, stunned. \u201cBut what about Mom?\u201d I ask finally. \u201cWhat about me?\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re perfectly old enough to take care of yourself,\u201d he says. \u201cAnd as for your mother, she has her pension and her memories. And you,\u201d he adds. \u201cBut you don\u2019t seem to understand,\u201d I tell him, distraught. \u201cMom is suffering terribly! She thinks you\u2019re decomposing out in the middle of nowhere. She wants me to bring you back for a burial.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll send another message,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019ll say I\u2019ve been cremated. I\u2019ll say my ashes have been scattered over the sands.\u201d I shake my head, my disbelief turning to pain and disgust. \u201cDad, this is vile,\u201d I tell him miserably. \u201cThis is truly perverse.\u201d He swings around towards me, glaring. \u201cDon\u2019t you sit in judgment of your father, my boy,\u201d he says savagely. I flush and swallow. There\u2019s a menacing pause. \u201cThere are certain things,\u201d he says, \u201cabout life, about which you are in no posi\u2014\u201d He clutches at the closet door, grimacing. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d I ask. \u201cMy gout,\u201d he mutters, clenching his teeth. \u201cDamn!\u201d He shakes a stockinged foot. \u201cI have it too,\u201d I blurt out. \u201cNonsense,\u201d he snorts, \u201cyou\u2019re much too young. Anyway,\u201d he says, easing the foot back gingerly into its ornate slipper, \u201cwhy are we arguing! I\u2019m only here for a short while.\u201d He grins. \u201cCome, I brought you something, I want you to have a taste of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

He stoops with a great deal of effort and at last emerges from the depths of the bag with a little clay pot. He takes off the lid and holds the pot out to me, beaming. I peer at it, at the puddle of slimy purple and green and brown it contains. A terrible, pungent odor rises to my nose. \u201cWhat \u2026 stewed fruit<\/em>?\u201d I stammer. \u201cNot \u2018stewed fruit\u2019,\u201d he cries. \u201cAmbrosia! It\u2019s like nothing you\u2019ve ever had before.\u201d \u201cNo, thanks, really,\u201d I protest, turning my head away. \u201cI mean I\u2019m not a great stewed fruit fan, and for God\u2019s sake. Dad, under the circumstances\u2014\u201d \u201cOh but you must try some,\u201d he insists, pushing the pot at me. \u201cNo, but really,\u201d I tell him, leaning away and holding up my hands. \u201cAnd for another thing I\u2019ve heard it\u2019s really dangerous!\u201d \u201cNonsense, will you just taste a little bit!\u201d he cries, exasperated. I hesitate unhappily; then petulantly I swipe a finger into the pot and poke it into my mouth.<\/p>\n

A taste of something pre-civilized shocks me\u2014an intensely coarse sweetness that is part animal fat and hair. I stand swallowing with all my might. \u201cIsn\u2019t it out of this world?\u201d says my father, grinning expectantly. I open my mouth as if to answer, but the only noise that comes out is a gasp. I double over, clutching at my stomach with both hands. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d my father asks. It feels as if someone were squeezing my intestines with a pair of pliers. Still doubled over, I whirl around and waddle frantically out the door, towards the bathroom.<\/p>\n

I huddle on the pot, hanging on to the towel rack for support, sweat standing out on my forehead. Piercing shudders roll through me. I press my face into the towels, groaning. There\u2019s a knock on the door. \u201cI have to leave now,\u201d says my father\u2019s voice. \u201cI\u2019m saying goodbye.\u201d \u201cNo, Dad, wait,\u201d I call out, wincing. \u201cJust a minute.\u201d \u201cNo, no, I must be going, I have to make my connection,\u201d he says through the door. \u201cGoodbye! \u201cTake care of your mother.\u201d \u201cDad, please, wait!\u201d I cry, twisting painfully. \u201cDon\u2019t desert us like this!\u201d But I can hear the slapping of his footsteps going down the hall; then the door closing.<\/p>\n

I come out at last from the bathroom, white-faced and shaky-legged. The hall is empty. I go back into the bedroom. There\u2019s no sign of him there either; just some sand from his slippers by the half-empty closet. I look at the tracings of fine grains. Then I look at the bed, where my mother lies, snoring, her frail head showing out of the great rippled mass of the bed-clothes. After a long while, I turn off the lamp and go slowly back upstairs.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

My mother comes to me with a jacket. \u201cThis was your father\u2019s,\u201d she says. \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d I shrug. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I tell her. I try it on. The shoulders are too wide and bulky for me. My forearms protrude past the bottoms of the sleeves like peg legs. The tweed is scratchy and smells un-nice. \u201cIt\u2019s not for me,\u201d I tell my mother, taking it off and handing it back to her.<\/p>\n

That night I wake up suddenly. My father\u2019s ghost stands shimmering beside my bed. \u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, you don\u2019t like my coat?\u201d it says. \u201cDad,\u201d I say. I sit up against the pillows and rub my eyes wearily. \u201cIt\u2019s a fine coat, it just doesn\u2019t fit me.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s a fabulous <\/em>coat,\u201d says my father. \u201cYou couldn\u2019t find a coat made that well anywhere in the world anymore. You should be thankful you have even a chance <\/em>to own a coat like that.\u201d \u201cPlease,\u201d I explain, \u201cI love the coat. I was honored to be considered a legatee for it. But I wonder if you\u2019ve noticed, I happen to be tall and on the thin side while you\u2019re short and\u2014and broad.\u201d \u201cI was as slim as a reed when I was your age,\u201d my father says, drawing himself to full, wavering height. \u201cSlimmer than you are, if you want to know the truth. Of course I always had very broad shoulders.\u201d \u201cYou looked great. Dad,\u201d I agree. \u201cI\u2019ve seen the photographs. But do you understand what I\u2019m telling you? The sleeves barely reach past my elbows. It looks ridiculous on me.\u201d \u201cYou could have it altered,\u201d he says. \u201cI suppose so,\u201d I admit forlornly. \u201cWhat do you think tailors are for,\u201d he says. \u201cWhy, any tailor today would give his eyeteeth to work with cloth like that\u2014I\u2019m sure they haven\u2019t seen its like in years! Have you felt that tweed, have you run your fingers over it?\u201d \u201cYes I have,\u201d I tell him. \u201cAnd my neck. It\u2019s a great tweed, a true tweed. Like heather and bramble.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know what you mean by \u2018bramble\u2019,\u201d he says, \u201cIt\u2019s as soft as cashmere against the skin. But \u2018heather\u2019 is very accurate, very juste. A tweed that caliber, it\u2019s like wearing the earth of the highlands around your shoulders. The Scottish highlands, where tweed comes from.\u201d \u201cI know perfectly well where tweed comes from!\u201d I tell him. \u201cIn point of fact it\u2019s from a part of Scotland which is a bunch of offshore islands, for your information, not highlands.\u201d \u201cYou don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about,\u201d says my father. \u201cTweed is from Scotland\u2014the highlands.\u201d \u201cLook, why are we arguing about this,\u201d I tell him. \u201cThe point is, I like my clothes to fit. I have several very nice jackets that meet this specification already, so thank you very much all the same.\u201d \u201cWhat, that ridiculous black thing you wear, with the funny collar?\u201d he says. \u201cPlease,\u201d I tell him. \u201cIt\u2019s very late, I\u2019m tired, I have to get to sleep, I\u2019m very sorry about the coat. Can we say goodnight?\u201d \u201cYes, goodnight, goodnight,\u201d says my father. \u201cIf I were alive, you wouldn\u2019t even come near that coat, you would be lucky just to be allowed to look <\/em>at it.\u201d \u201cGee, thanks so much,\u201d I tell him, plumping my pillow. \u201cDo you know what it\u2019s like being dead and having your precious memories flung back in your face?\u201d he says. \u201cFor pity\u2019s sake the coat just doesn\u2019t fit!\u201d I protest. \u201cWhat do you want from me?\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t you raise your voice to me,\u201d he says. \u201cDon\u2019t you think just because I\u2019m gone you can forget your place with me.\u201d \u201cBut what do <\/em>you want?\u201d I ask him. \u201cWhy are you making such a terrible fuss about this?\u201d \u201cI just want to pass on to you what was mine,\u201d he says. \u201cYou\u2019re my son, I want you to have the things that were mine \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know what to say to this. The room falls silent. My father\u2019s ghost trembles pathetically in the dimness. \u201cAlright,\u201d I mumble finally. \u201cAlright \u2026 if it means that much to you. Alright. I\u2019ll wear it \u2026 even though\u2014No<\/em>,\u201d I blurt out desperately, \u201cI won\u2019t, I won\u2019t <\/em>wear that itchy, stumpy, evil-smelling thing! I\u2019ll accept it and cherish it as a gift from you, but I won\u2019t wear it, because it simply doesn\u2019t fit, and that\u2019s all there is to it. Dad,\u201d I say. I push off the covers and get out of bed. \u201cDad, don\u2019t be like that. Where are you going, come back.\u201d I go over to the window. \u201cDad,\u201d I call out, over the dark bushes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s all the shouting?\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother stands in the doorway in her nightgown. She blinks at me sleepily. \u201cOh, he got all upset about that stupid tweed coat,\u201d I tell her. She looks at me. She looks away and shakes her head, wearily. \u201cEven in the grave,\u201d she says, \u201che\u2019s a lunatic.\u201d Before she closes the door she says, \u201cGo to bed, go to sleep. I\u2019ll give it to the neighbors in the morning.\u201d<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I have a bottle in which I keep my father. Fate has decreed that he die and return as a ghostly miniature in a glass container. Fate has decreed further that he do so dressed up as a cavalier, a role in which he liked to fancy himself in life just past. It is not however a lean, lithe, glimmering figure of a cavalier my father cuts. His is portly and solid and squat. But he is properly equipped with a great, opulently feathered hat on his head; a soft spray of ruffles under his double chin; lacy, lampshade cuffs at the ends of puffed sleeves; an embroidered sash diagonally over his girth, from which wobbles the deep, bowled guard of his rapier; suede boots that struggle, rumpled, up to his mid-thigh. Spurs clank faintly when he walks.<\/p>\n

The bottle itself is furnished simply, to my father\u2019s needs. It holds a bed, a carpet, a couple of chairs, and a table at which my father spends most days fittingly at work on his memoirs. He looks sober and substantial and squire-like as he scratches away with his quill, his inkpot open on one side of the pages, his great hat carefully set down on the other.<\/p>\n

Once a week, on Sundays, he makes a practice of reading aloud his progress, in a tiny, orotund voice. These are not pleasant times for me. Sometimes I can\u2019t restrain myself from breaking into his declamations to let him know what I think: that his language is ostentatious, his tone cornball and melodramatic, his selection of facts preposterously self-serving. Naturally I don\u2019t use these exact words, but even so my father is violently insulted. He draws himself erect in his finery to dismiss my opinion out of hand. I am callow, I am uninformed; I know, for all intents and purposes, nothing about anything. Haughtily my father flaunts his seniority, the numerous achievements of his lifetime. \u201cYou should listen,\u201d he concludes, \u201cand per- haps learn something for a change.\u201d \u201cPerhaps, perhaps,\u201d I mutter, shifting in my seat, as his piping drone resumes.<\/p>\n

Then there are days when memoirs are not the issue. A black mood descends on my father. He slumps in his chair in sumptuous, velvety gloom. His splendid hat lies upside-down on its feather on the floor. The deckled pages of his manuscript are scattered over the carpet, useless. My father drinks from a flagon and rails against his death and his imprisonment as a homunculus in a knick-knack. His hair is tangled, his little eyes are red, drunk, obsessed. He pleads with me suddenly to pull the cork from the bottle, to release him from captivity. But I don\u2019t think this is a good idea, as I try to explain. Besides, I don\u2019t see how he could ever hope to fit through the neck of the bottle. He curses me for this. He seizes his rapier from the other chair and thrusts bellowing at the confines of the bottle. Again and again the glinting needle of his sword buckles against the glass walls. With a howl he heaves the rapier from him and tramples his hat on his way to the bed, where he sprawls in agony, his teeth sunk gnawing into his wrist, the tears coursing down his cheeks.<\/p>\n

When my father\u2019s exhibitions reach this piteous stage, I take the bottle down from its wooden cradle on the mantle. I hurry with it into the bathroom. I fill the tub with water and I set the bottle into it. The gentle undulations of the surface exert a calming influence on my father\u2019s anguish. His writhing begins to subside; his sobbing diminishes. I stir the water quietly with my fingers. At last my father\u2019s hands slacken and fall away; his breathing changes. His room bobs placidly. I listen for it to fill with vinous snores. My father\u2019s suede is scuffed, his velvet bruised, his lace torn in places; but at last, he sleeps. Gingerly I lift the bottle out of the tub and dry it with a towel. Tenderness and irony mingle in me equally at these moments. I carry my little, sodden, miserable father back into the living room. Without jostling, I lift him and gently as I can I set him back, snoring, onto the wooden struts of his cradle.<\/p>\n

Barry Yourgrau is a writer and performance artist. He is the author of <\/em>Mess: One Man\u2019s Struggle to Clean Up His House and His Act as well as<\/em> A Man Jumps Out of an Airplane,<\/em> Haunted Traveller, and <\/em>The Sadness of Sex.<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Barry Yourgrau\u2019s story \u201cSand\u201d appeared in our Spring 1985 issue. It appears (in slightly different form) in his\u00a0collection\u00a0Wearing Dad\u2019s Head, reissued this month by Arcade Publishing along with another of his books,\u00a0Haunted Traveller.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":169,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1188],"tags":[2077,11876,19907,261,17294],"class_list":["post-102979","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-from-the-archive","tag-barry-yourgrau","tag-fathers","tag-from-the-archive","tag-short-story","tag-sons"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n\u201cSand\u201d, a story by Barry Yourgrau<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"A story from the archive.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Sand by Barry Yourgrau\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"September 22, 2016 \u2013 Barry Yourgrau\u2019s story \u201cSand\u201d appeared in our Spring 1985 issue. It appears (in slightly different form) in his\u00a0collection\u00a0Wearing Dad\u2019s Head, reissued\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2016-09-22T20:27:32+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2020-03-06T20:23:07+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-1.png\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1200\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"675\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Barry Yourgrau\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Barry Yourgrau\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"36 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Barry Yourgrau\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/5ec07e0d8cc37a1e80834b3a4feb9a19\"},\"headline\":\"Sand\",\"datePublished\":\"2016-09-22T20:27:32+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2020-03-06T20:23:07+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/\"},\"wordCount\":7298,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/09\/415gj92p2vl.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"Barry Yourgrau\",\"fathers\",\"from the archive\",\"short story\",\"sons\"],\"articleSection\":[\"From the Archive\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/\",\"name\":\"\u201cSand\u201d, a story by Barry Yourgrau\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/09\/415gj92p2vl.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2016-09-22T20:27:32+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2020-03-06T20:23:07+00:00\",\"description\":\"A story from the archive.\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"\",\"contentUrl\":\"\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Sand\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/5ec07e0d8cc37a1e80834b3a4feb9a19\",\"name\":\"Barry Yourgrau\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/0c5df6eeba8ace1fdc680aedd87662c8b2fbfbae7b8a6c11c579542bb9467227?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/0c5df6eeba8ace1fdc680aedd87662c8b2fbfbae7b8a6c11c579542bb9467227?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Barry Yourgrau\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/byourgrau\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"\u201cSand\u201d, a story by Barry Yourgrau","description":"A story from the archive.","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Sand by Barry Yourgrau","og_description":"September 22, 2016 \u2013 Barry Yourgrau\u2019s story \u201cSand\u201d appeared in our Spring 1985 issue. It appears (in slightly different form) in his\u00a0collection\u00a0Wearing Dad\u2019s Head, reissued","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2016-09-22T20:27:32+00:00","article_modified_time":"2020-03-06T20:23:07+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1200,"height":675,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-1.png","type":"image\/png"}],"author":"Barry Yourgrau","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Barry Yourgrau","Est. reading time":"36 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/"},"author":{"name":"Barry Yourgrau","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/5ec07e0d8cc37a1e80834b3a4feb9a19"},"headline":"Sand","datePublished":"2016-09-22T20:27:32+00:00","dateModified":"2020-03-06T20:23:07+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/"},"wordCount":7298,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/09\/415gj92p2vl.jpg","keywords":["Barry Yourgrau","fathers","from the archive","short story","sons"],"articleSection":["From the Archive"],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/","name":"\u201cSand\u201d, a story by Barry Yourgrau","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/09\/415gj92p2vl.jpg","datePublished":"2016-09-22T20:27:32+00:00","dateModified":"2020-03-06T20:23:07+00:00","description":"A story from the archive.","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#primaryimage","url":"","contentUrl":""},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/09\/22\/sand\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Sand"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/5ec07e0d8cc37a1e80834b3a4feb9a19","name":"Barry Yourgrau","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/0c5df6eeba8ace1fdc680aedd87662c8b2fbfbae7b8a6c11c579542bb9467227?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/0c5df6eeba8ace1fdc680aedd87662c8b2fbfbae7b8a6c11c579542bb9467227?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Barry Yourgrau"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/byourgrau\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/102979","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/169"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=102979"}],"version-history":[{"count":17,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/102979\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":143370,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/102979\/revisions\/143370"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=102979"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=102979"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=102979"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}